


The Usual Suspects

by newsbypostcard



Series: [hp] An Uncivil War [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Betrayal, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Death Eater Problems, Eventual James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Heartbreak, Hogwarts, Humor, M/M, Marauders, Parental Abuse, Reconciliation, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, temporary Remus Lupin/Other, temporary Sirius Black/Other, werewolf problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: Sirius was the most beautiful man alive; Remus was not ignorant to stark reality. Put like that, the situation was simple.(1975: Remus is apparently a gay teenaged werewolf; Sirius has gone and disinherited himself; junior Death Eaters are roaming Hogwarts' halls; and Lily Evans hashad itwith James Potter's antics. Also it's OWL year; is there no end to the madness?)
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: [hp] An Uncivil War [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513142
Comments: 27
Kudos: 81





	1. The Sirius Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about teens; it contains consenting sexual interactions between teens. It's a coming of age story; they make mistakes, they say shitty things to each other, they grow from it. I'm already so proud of them.
> 
> This story tackles stressful themes. Sirius has left home after an escalation of abuse and has arrived at Hogwarts with a chip on his shoulder, believing the school is enabling the Death Eater movement. He feels like he can't leave, but nor can he stand idly by; this anti-establishment conflict is the central plot of the story (and indeed the whole series). Remus, meanwhile, is newly parsing his gay identity and, after his father's bad reaction, spends the first act afraid of homophobic rejection. He meets a lot more acceptance than he expects, but the acceptance is flawed. He is yet more distressed about his lycanthropy—the consequences of which are handled in detail, including discussion of injury.
> 
> James is a bit of a bastard and has to reckon with being born into wealth and status. Peter is consistently overlooked and rejected; Lily is just trying to get through this bloody year. They all sometimes rely on tobacco, alcohol, and/or marijuana to manage their stress. But there is comedy, too, and kindness, and support from unexpected quarters. Love is the central theme of this story, I can promise that much.
> 
> Eternal thank you to [Grace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso) for answering my questions on UK English, accents, and education in eloquent detail. All mistakes are of course my own. This story will be long; I have no update schedule; it stands alone without reading previous parts in the series. Thank you for reading.

## FALL, 1975

Given that Remus, James, and Peter had spent the last seven weeks trying to contain Walburga Black's daily Howler, it was somewhat of a Pyrrhic victory they were only now seeing progress. 

It would have been easier if Sirius helped, but he preferred to affect absolute indifference while his mother's shrieks echoed off the walls. It was not remotely the first time he had sustained this sort of verbal assault, which he told them repeatedly; this information did not impact their conduct. Each morning, while Walburga screamed, Remus, James, and Peter embarked on new adventures in misapplied hexes while Sirius spread butter and jam on his toast, calm as you please, propping his feet on the table and tipping his chair off the floor.

The rest of Gryffindor table, and the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables as well, seemed to have adjusted to the new state of affairs, having long since contented themselves to eating breakfast in silence using personal muffling charms. But Remus' dedication was not waning. The data was fascinating, to say the least. Transfiguration never did anything to the Howlers, though James' convincing command of _Draconifors_ —deflected, and notably proving successful once connected with a salt shaker nearby—concerned Remus greatly for the prank that would inevitably follow. Their _Aqua Eructo / Ebublio_ combination had also been inspired, but it had only made Walburga's voice sound like it was underwater, the words not much obscured. Trying to make the thing Disappear had taken the three of them to even affect it—the effect being the instant manifestation of 99 identical Howlers echoing the same abuse in unison. This had required Madam Pomfrey's casting of a spell of impressive scope to undeafen all 400 people in the hall at once, and had not been reattempted.

 _Expulso_ did nothing. Fire did nothing. _Finite Incantatem_ thrice cast only rendered them suddenly useless at spells for the following hour—something which had not gone over well with Flitwick when they'd landed in Charms unable to use magic. 

Their most successful attempt to get the Howler down to a dull murmur had been this morning, with petrification and silencing charms, followed by hasty covering of the letter with a nearby pastry lid. Lily’s participation had strengthened the attempt, and the Howler’s words could no longer be discerned as long as one was actively eating. Remus considered this their greatest success to date.

Sirius, for his part, showed no change in his reaction regardless of their countermeasures. This might have annoyed Remus, except that he believed three things to be true. 

First: Any genuine reaction from Sirius was bound to make things worse. He'd shown up at the Pettigrews' Swansea cottage two months ago severely unmoored, vowing never to go back to the Black family home, over events he wouldn’t talk about. His behavior had not stabilized since. Sirius' control in the face of these Howlers was admirable in a certain light, even if whatever Sirius repressed at breakfast was instead unleashed slowly throughout the day.

Second was that it seemed possible Walburga would know if Sirius reacted with magic, not least because Regulus’ eyes were fixed on Gryffindor table too often for someone pretending his brother didn’t exist. Howlers were intended to humiliate, to shame, to make Sirius’ disownment publicly clear—and yet, as Sirius may have realized, their daily recurrence suggested that Walburga was far more affected by Sirius' departure than Sirius was by his disownment. Being called a _Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh_ was possibly being interpreted by Sirius as a compliment. Remus was happy enough not to interfere.

Third was that the daily arrival of Walburga's Howler may have been contributing to why Sirius had not yet been expelled. The head table heard her screaming, same as anyone else. Sirius might have managed to beat his own record for detentions accrued in the first six weeks of classes—a whopping 26, impressive even to James—mostly for failure to do homework, mouthing off at teachers, and flagrantly violating Hogwarts rules. For example, Sirius had recently eschewed wizarding robes, preferring a rotation of loose-necked t-shirts emblazoned with Muggle band slogans. 

And, of course, there was the persistent problem of the curse wars happening in the halls.

From what Remus could tell, teachers had given up reprimanding him for minor offenses, simply because there was so much else to reprimand him for. In this matter, James was not helping. Remus, newly made Prefect rather against his preferences, was doing his damndest to serve as the group’s impulse control without either alienating himself from them or copping too heavily for the administration. It was a delicate balance, and not one Remus felt was particularly successful. He preferred to address problems individually as they arose, and thus was not trying to tackle the problem of Sirius as an overall concept, despite instincts to the contrary.

The Howler wearily fogged up the pastry lid as Remus ate. It heartened him to notice that Lily’s attention was drawn to it as well. She caught his eye from down the table, face resting in one hand, her expression as perplexed as his. 

Blessedly, James was missing this silent communication. He was too busy bleating something in Remus’ ear about how he'd gotten Lily to participate in the countercurse in the first place. James had forgotten, as he so often did, that Lily and Remus met every Wednesday evening before Astronomy to discuss Prefect duties, and forgot even more commonly that Remus and Lily had been at least civil and occasionally friendly over the past couple of years.

Sirius was, as usual, ignoring the situation altogether, preferring to lick jam off his fingers with individual and vulgar focus. "Well," he said cheerfully, marking the Howler's last wheezing words with the thunk of his chair against the floor. “New day ahead of us, chaps, a fresh turn around the sun. A world of endless possibility. Open doors, open hearts, open—"

"—books?” Remus muttered.

"Minds, at the very least," Sirius answered with a wink. "C'mon, Prongs, we can put in a solid twenty at the Willow before you drag me to class.”

"What are you doing to the Willow?" Remus asked with a wince.

"Enchanting bludgers to fly at it,” Sirius offered easily. “Check its batting speed. Hoping to give Slytherin a bit of a surprise against—"

“Do shut up, Padfoot,” James said loudly, spinning to his feet, “or you'll ruin the surprise."

Remus didn't need to look to know Lily was listening. Today’s Howler had finally burned up, in any case, gracing Gryffindor table with its 46th scorch mark of the year. “And you're sure the tree will survive this assault?" he asked gingerly, replacing the pastry lid where it belonged.

Sirius flashed him an indulgent grin, one hand grasped around the back of his chair. Remus had taken to noticing his hands quite a lot lately—but that was incidental. Hands were very _there_ , generally speaking. Sirius had stooped to wearing robes today—albeit not in regulation, as they were burgundy dress robes sitting open over his usually unbearable low-cut t-shirt—but still managed to be the very picture of reckless abandon. The lovingly conditioned waves of his hair were cast over one shoulder, his grey eyes dancing with mischief as he held Remus' gaze. 

Remus was abruptly struck, as by a bludger to the face, by how beautiful he was.

"Trust you to fall in love with the only tree capable of tearing a man apart," Sirius grinned.

”Finally we learn where Moony's affections lie!" said James, lacing an arm around Sirius’ shoulders.

“Aye, it’s young Willow who's stolen his heart."

"She's a fiesty dame, but she'll take your secrets to the grave. Your grave, of course, but—"

"Alright," said Remus, eyes closing. "Thank you; I am fond of the tree; please don't destroy it."

"She'll get through it better than the bludgers,” Sirius said, “promise.” And without further ado, he leapt onto James’ back; James caught him easily; and like this, the pair of them screamed out of the Great Hall as a unit.

Remus allowed himself an incredulous moment to process the chaos of what he’d just witnessed before returning to the remains of his breakfast. Peter, meanwhile, was still beside him, sketching an impressive rendering of a Howler on a napkin beside his plate. 

"Not going with them?” Remus asked.

Peter shrugged, balancing a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand. "They never ask.”

“Me neither. Count it as a blessing." But Remus was discouraged from continuing when Lily slammed her books down in front of him. 

"Well done Prefecting," she hissed across the table.

"You know as well as I do nothing under the sun would stop them."

"You might've at least tried."

"I did try. If you'd been listening to anyone but James—"

"You only clarified whether they were going to _hurt_ the tree, which enchanted bludgers sound like they really might. What's the point of you, if not to stop them?"

"Contrary to popular belief," Remus said evenly, "I exist on this earth for reasons other than to hold James and Sirius back from their illustrious life of crime. I notice you didn't interject either, despite your eavesdropping."

"It's not eavesdropping when the entire Hall is subjected to their latest bit!" 

And as Lily tore out and away, Remus reached for his coffee and toasted the place she had just been. "Thank you," he muttered, "for your help with the Howler."

"Oh," said Peter, awkwardly patting Remus on the shoulder. Toast crumbs fell over his robes. “You're welcome."

Remus might have corrected him on another morning, but he'd had quite enough excitement for one day. Instead, he poured himself another cup of coffee and reveled in the Great Hall's abrupt but welcome silence.

  


  


  


It was hard to assess the danger Sirius was actually in, of course, when Remus heard reverential clarions every time Sirius walked into a room. 

It’d had no particular beginning: a nag in his mind had grown to questions, then questions to answers, then answers to agony. Now Remus only occupied one of two states: looking at Sirius, or not looking Sirius. There were no other options. OWL year was proving completely impossible—and thank Christ, as it excused Remus’ sudden withdrawal, reliance on dry jokes and sarcasm, his focus, and his avoidance. To the outside observer, Remus didn’t seem like he was in love with Sirius; he only seemed like he hated everything. Remus had frankly never loved an impending exam more.

Sirius and James had recently been appointed the most eligible bachelors in the year—an additional strain. They leaned predictably into the attention. James held an understandable appeal; he emphasized the assets of his wealth, wearing his tie loose around an unbuttoned collar. He had taken to messing up his black hair purposefully throughout the day; the whole aesthetic was well supported by the rugged, emerging angles of his face. Even in spite of his glasses, which he used to resent, a recent but severe uptick in his confidence had solidified his status as a pompous heartbreaker over the past year.

Sirius, meanwhile, was establishing himself as a general delinquent. The stolen motorbike had undone Remus. The few vestiges of control he’d had on his feelings for Sirius had been immediately severed when Sirius had rode into Swansea looking like... like leaving his parents had turned him into some sort of god of leather. He was transcendent, was the point: deliberately provocative, wiry and lean. High cheekbones, piercing gaze. Even his hair was a point of obsession for them both. It was soft; it smelled _wonderful_. Over one short summer, everything about Sirius had evolved specifically to drive Remus insane. 

Sirius, of course, knew nothing of this, and with any luck he never would. Remus had spent a forlorn fourth year watching Sirius’ dating exploits, increasingly agitated when Sirius reported back on his escalating firsts. He’d thought he, like Peter, was feeling a bit left behind; but when the same feelings didn’t surface when James followed suit, Remus had gotten his first clue about what was going on.

James, surprising everyone, had since settled down somewhat. Now he declared every time Lily Evans walked by that he was a man of singular devotion. Sirius, on the other hand, had significantly increased his dating ambition since fifth year began. He seemed, in classic Sirius fashion, to relish in having people vie for his attention. Remus, meanwhile, had made not-caring about Sirius’ dating life one of his daily tasks. Like Prefect rounds, or rising for class, he perfected it equivalently. It was OWL year, after all; he had more important things to worry about than Sirius' girl of the week. 

If Remus tore his cuticles to shreds every time Sirius and whomever entwined themselves anywhere in his vicinity, surely no one noticed. Lesions were by now an established part of his image.

Sirius had always been a physical person. They were all of them physical; any pretense at personal space had been abandoned sometime in third year. Remus could not exactly discourage Sirius’ tendency to express himself physically without giving himself away; but he could not, in all good conscience, allow things to proceed, either.

Sirius paid not enough attention to Remus and altogether too much. On top of motorbikes and women and altered states of consciousness, Sirius had also become somewhat indiscriminate in his pursuit of…

Well, frankly, Sirius tended to get a bit seductive with anyone who’d let him, when he was drunk enough.

And Remus let him.

It was… ruinous. It was the best thing that'd ever happened to him. It wasn’t much; they never kissed; Sirius only mouthed at Remus’ neck, which Remus found agreeable. He didn’t know what Sirius meant by it, he didn’t ask, it didn’t matter, they would never discuss it. Remus was not special. James laughed when Sirius started up the same thing with him, shrugging him off fondly; Peter had kicked up a somewhat more serious fuss, a problem Remus would have to contend with at a later date.

Remus, of course, simply allowed it. Things had progressed. Once Sirius had managed to crowd him against a bedpost, hot and close, one hand at Remus’ hip as he dragged his teeth along his throat, and Remus—desperately trying to find the will to put this to a stop—moaned. Softly, an accident, one of the biggest regrets of Remus’ life—but instead of pulling off, Sirius had only doubled down. 

By the time Remus did pull himself together, he had an impressive mark to show for it. Remus had coveted this with desperate mortification. He'd disappeared into the Prefect bathroom upon its discovery for longer than he reasonably could excuse, and suffered a catastrophic Herbology class days later after Sirius gently touched his neck in passing. So gripped was Remus by the memory of Sirius' mouth on his skin that he had lost track of all instructions, landing himself in the Hospital Wing, pus burns down his arms.

Remus took heart in the fact that Hogwarts’ female population found it equally difficult to deny Sirius. Sirius was the most beautiful man alive; Remus was not ignorant to stark reality. Put like that, the situation was simple.

With great power came great responsibility, however, and Sirius’ popularity developed an ugly side. Not in four years at Hogwarts had Remus heard one person’s name dominate the gossip the way Sirius’ did now. It wasn't that he didn't deserve the unkindness; often, he did. He had little concern for his own future and even less concern for the feelings of others. 

But while Remus could tolerate gossip from people Sirius had actually wronged, it was another matter to hear it from effective strangers. Sirius was a prat and a ruffian, true; but he was _Remus’_ prat and _Remus’_ ruffian, and he was helpless but to defend his sole right to saying so.

(Sirius had lately stated his curiosity about the new spate of fellow detainees, most of whom were in for being late to class—all of whom, strangely, reported being randomly Petrified in the halls. Not under penalty of death would Remus admit it, but if they had simply spoken better of their peers, they might have found themselves sitting fewer detentions.)

Remus rationalized his attachment to Sirius in countless ways. James was Sirius’ best friend; Remus knew it, he didn't mind it, James had certain privileges Sirius coveted. But Remus had always shared a certain thread of connection with Sirius. Remus still talked to his parents, unlike Sirius—but his relationship with them was fraught, especially these days. This was something neither James nor Peter understood.

(It had been Remus' fault for leaving the magazine lying around. The argument with his father still rattled in his head. To hear Lyall talk about it, Remus' lycanthropy was now responsible for his homosexuality, and probably countless other unknown deficiencies. Remus, more contrarian than he’d known he was capable of, had since picked up a few bad habits he might have otherwise avoided just to lean into his father’s perception of his systematic deviance. Now he was starting to look forward to his after-class cigarette, to his own annoyance. If his rebellions were considerably more subdued than Sirius’, they at least understood each other’s reasoning.)

Sirius, meanwhile, knew what it was to live under the shadow of threat. Neither James nor Peter slept with their wands under their pillows the way he and Sirius did. Sirius was plenty familiar with ostracism, understood the implications of Remus' lycanthropy better than anyone. This understanding went both ways, or so Remus liked to think: it was Remus brought into Sirius’ confidence two months ago when he needed his ribs taped; it was Remus who, once aboard the Hogwarts Express, took Sirius’ chin in hand and fixed the click his jaw acquired over the summer.

Sirius, of course, was not the only one with secrets. James’ endless attempted discussions about who fancied whom among their number were proving increasingly difficult to dodge. It felt hellish to withhold part of himself from them after years of freedom, but Remus felt no keener to pursue the alternative. Unlike with his father, there was no escaping them. They shared classes, a common room—a dormitory, for crying out loud. If there had been one reason to accept the Prefect badge, it was for the new option of a private bath. 

Remus was ferociously content with the state of his life as it was, with his friends and secrets and burning devotion. If abandonment was the cost of transparency, he’d pass up transparency every time.

Remus, then, would have to start shrugging a drunken Sirius off his neck. The conclusion was as terrible as it was inevitable. Sirius was too good at the things he chose to do; he was good at being obnoxious and disaffected, good at skiving off his schoolwork, good at Transfiguration and Charms in spite of never cracking a book; he was good at pranks, good at Quidditch in several positions; and he was decidedly, _hopelessly_ good at necking. 

Remus suspected, given Sirius’ pursuant purpose and the odd snogging review he’d gleaned in the halls, that Sirius was quite good at kissing in general. Remus wanted evidence to support this hypothesis just as keenly as he vowed to avoid it.

Things were fine as they were. His heart soared and sank so often it may as well have been rigged with a pulley, but Remus felt immensely blessed to be even within Sirius' striking distance. To be his friend, to be taken into his confidence, to be a target of his affections—this was enough. 

All there was left to do was buckle down for OWLs, implement his Sirius deflection plan, and eventually let drop that he fancied men in a way that could not possibly make anyone upset, and everything was bound to turn out fine.

  



	2. Politics of Copping Off

  


"I think I might not actually have a date for the weekend,” said Sirius.

James took this news stoically, handing Sirius his lighter. “Call the bloody _Prophet_.”

“Must be coming down with something."

"Is that why? Unusually courteous of you."

“You’ve got it backwards, mate. The sickness causes the affliction.”

James hummed. “Might it not have to do with the fact that you’re starting to run low on options?"

"The thought did occur to me," Sirius said grimly. "Might have to make a second go through the list."

"Not sure your reputation supports such ambition."

"Not particularly concerned with my reputation, Prongs."

“And why is that? Maybe you should be.”

Sirius tutted. "Death Eater talk, that.”

“If your current approach means no girl will go out with you twice—“

"O ye of little faith!"

“I’ve only got your best interests at heart.” But James sounded distracted. In the next moment, his stride had changed, his shoulders squaring, his hand coming up to mess his own hair, and Sirius didn’t have to look to know Lily Evans was coming up the lawn.

Sirius couldn't fault James' single-minded focus. Lily had grown into an astonishing beauty, and moreover, she knew it. Sirius had no intention of interfering with James’ deeply misguided wooing attempts; their interactions entertained him far too much. Lily had returned from Easter break last year having clearly embraced her destiny as a dead looker, and James had been immediately doomed. Confidence to rival his own? The bastard had never looked back. 

Lily was smart as a whip and mean as one, too; she knew what she was doing, had no time for the rest. Unfortunate that ‘the rest’ currently included James, but hope burned eternal.

"Evans," James said ‘sexily’, like the world’s biggest prat.

Surrounded by her friends as she was, Lily at first appeared to ignore him entirely. Partly entertained by this, partly just keen to evaluate his odds with the rest of the group, Sirius craned his neck to watch them pass. Lily’s eyelids did flicker with the faintest annoyance; technically an acknowledgement, thus technically progress. Sirius was proud of James for being so bloody irritating. Truly an achievement.

As for the rest—Lily, naturally, was firmly off-limits—there was Mary, Hester, and gorgeous Amal. Mary had dated James for an impressive seven weeks last spring, and Sirius had little desire to trespass even that far. Hester, of course, was the current object of Peter's fancy, and though Sirius would never tell Peter in a million years, he'd made out with her in a broom closet sometime last year and found the experience neither interesting nor memorable.

Then there was Amal—gorgeous Amal. She and Evans seemed to form the centre of their pack, in the way he and James did with theirs. Buxom breasts, full hips, thick black hair Sirius had briefly actually not been able to pull his fingers out of—Amal was a Ravenclaw, but everyone had flaws. She’d also been kind enough to engage in some exceedingly talented verbal sparring with Sirius over the first three weeks of term before spending a very agreeable, mostly horizontal afternoon with him on the Hogwarts grounds.

It _was_ true she hadn't expressed any particular affection for him in the weeks since. But if Sirius wanted any chance of releasing the frantic energy building under his skin, he had to start somewhere.

"Amal," Sirius said pleasantly.

"Eat threstal shit," she replied, just as cheerful.

“Right," Sirius said. "Nice to see you.” He balanced his cigarette between his lips and lit it behind cupped hands. That was the lay of the land, then.

"You know, Padfoot," James said pensively, voice normalizing once out of their earshot. "A thought's just occurred to me."

“Terrible news. Dispatch it at once.”

“I only wondered why every girl you cop off with seems to hate you on sight after."

"Well," Sirius said, electing to match his jaunty tone, "I can hardly pretend to understand the mysteries of the female mind."

"Right," agreed James. "But if you had to guess."

"If I had to _guess_ ,” said Sirius, “I’d hazard we have different ideas on what copping off entails."

"Right!” James said, vicious with fake enthusiasm. “I suppose I'm wondering how that happens."

"Well, I'm sure _I_ can't be faulted.” Sirius splayed a hand against his chest. “I go through great pains to specify my intentions before each and every encounter."

“Do you!”

Sirius amended, “Since Julia.”

"And these intentions are—?"

“Copping off and nothing more.”

"And that's agreed upon, is it?"

“Correct.”

"So you agreed beforehand with”—James waved a cigarette-laden hand—“oh, I don't know, _Amal_ for example, that you intended to cop off precisely one time—"

“Precisely."

"—and then get off with someone else later in the week?"

"Well,” said Sirius. “I’m hardly likely to say _that_ bit, am I?"

"I see," James said patiently. "So when you say you agreed, you did _not_ agree that it’s one time only."

Sirius gave him a sidelong look. “Is it not implied that—”

"You see, Padfoot," James cut in, “here is where my thought comes in." 

“That pesky thing."

"I was _thinking_ it could be your assumptions are a little different than everyone else's when it comes to copping off.”

"That's not possible," Sirius said with confidence.

"Why is everyone so cross with you, then?"

"It's not _my_ fault they don't understand the rules."

"And these rules are…?"

"You know perfectly well what they are."

"It's just been so long, Padfoot.” James pressed the cigarette out with his fingers, tucking the other half in his pocket. “I’m horribly rusty."

“You knew the rules two months ago.”

"I know what _you_ think the rules are."

"So you do know the rules!"

"But Amal doesn't know you, so why should she know what you think the rules are? Nora Tomlinson doesn't know you. Edna Bintner—“

“ _Don't_ start in on poor Edna, her name's got ‘bint’ in it, she's led a troubled life."

"So you don't think Edna's _reaction_ had anything to do with what you think the rules are?”

"Everyone knows what the rules are."

"No," James said flatly.

"Aha!" Sirius exclaimed, turning to walk backward in front of him. He circled a finger in James’ face. "At last we get to the heart of the issue! Say what's really on your mind, why don’t you, Prongs? Don’t hold back.”

James stopped to grab Sirius by both shoulders, and Sirius started to realize he might really be wrong.

"You're making enemies you don't need," said James, and inviting that sort of sincerity was _far_ worse than just being wrong. "It looks like you're yanking people around."

"But I'm not." Sirius replaced the cigarette in his mouth with swagger. "I specify every single time that it’s just copping off. It's not my fault they don't believe me."

"Here is the thing, though, Pads: everyone else thinks a cop-off is one thing leading to another.”

“That is the definition of a cop-off, Prongs,” Sirius said—but then he picked up James’ meaning. “Oh, surely not.”

"'Fraid so.”

"With the same person? _Again?_ ”

“That's the general idea."

Sirius waited for the joke to reveal itself, but James’ expression didn't brighten. “Come off it,” Sirius said loudly.

"Play it back with me a moment,” James said, wrapping an arm around Sirius' shoulders and splaying a hand in the air. "When a girl gets cross with you, what does she say? Be specific."

"I'm not protesting what _they_ think, I’m protesting the assumption that anyone would _want_ to…” He waved a belabouring hand. “I never say we're going to date! I explicitly specify that we’re just copping off—“

"But you don’t say it’s a one-time thing,” James reminded him, “because… that would ruin the moment?"

"Well! Can you blame me!"

James clapped a hand lovingly against Sirius’ chest and set back off toward the Willow. "In everyone else's world, Padfoot, an investment is implied. That's all I’m saying. That’s the rulebook you should be playing by."

"Well, that's _barking_ ,” Sirius shouted, catching up to James and his affectionate laugh. "Just because your family is all _happy_ , with your parents who like each other, doesn't mean that's how the rest of us work. Everyone understands that’s the whole point of copping off! There’s no attachment!”

“Given that your parents only married for blood purity and clearly despise each other, though, Pads… is it within the realm of possibility, do you think, that you might be the odd one out?"

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning into the distance. "I'm certain I'm right about this.”

“How certain is certain, really, in the grand scheme of things?"

Sirius scowled as he smoked. James grabbed him fondly by the arm. ”Once again," he said, "if you specify that the attraction of Sirius Black is available for one night only, a lot fewer girls will hate you when it turns out that's what you mean."

"But then most wouldn't bother to…" 

Then James' point made impact. 

"Oh," Sirius whispered, “ _bugger._ ”

James hooked an elbow around Sirius’ neck with the intention of affection, but Sirius, touchy, wrenched himself away. "Your sense of superiority is in full frontal display this morning, Prongs. Tell me, Mister Knows-The-Rules, has Sarah Grace forgiven you?"

James winced. “Well…"

"Are you and Francesca on speaking terms yet? Lily Evans thinks what of you again?"

"We're not talking about me," James said buoyantly.

"We never do in these little conversations. Why is that? Maybe we should."

"I just thought it might be nice if, generally speaking, the girls in our year hated us slightly less."

Sirius took in a scandalized breath. “Oh, I _see_! This is a _self-interested_ conversation!"

"I operate for the good of the people,” James said diplomatically.

“You massive prick." Sirius meant it, but there was affection in it, too. “Trying to control me so Evans will like you.“

"I'm merely aware that the people who hate you generally hate me, despite my eminent likability.”

“Posh bastardry always causes likability confusion, don’t fault the lemmings.”

“Spoken like a true posh bastard.”

“That’s _reformed_ posh bastard to you."

James hummed. “Dubious." 

"Awfully critical of others, aren’t you, for someone who wanted to lie about his morning plans to avoid being shouted at?”

“I’m only saying that if you want to do your share to maintain—” 

Sirius filled in the blanks. “Our _status_?”

“Well…"

“I don’t care about my reputation!" he roared. "I can't say it enough. And you shouldn't be either. Death Eater talk." He wagged a finger in James' face.

“I just think that if we’re trying to have some kind of influence on—”

“I maintain our status plenty regardless," said Sirius, ignoring him. "You are viewed as cool only as a result of your association with me.”

“I was cool before I knew you.”

“You bloody wish.”

“‘Cool’ counts as a reputation.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Sirius, and resumed attention to his cigarette.

They had reached their destination; the Whomping Willow thrashed as magnificently as ever, her long and angry limbs blotting out the sun before letting it show again. James and Sirius watched her in admiration, Sirius in momentary peace. Something at Hogwarts seemed to know how he felt. Pity it was only a tree.

James ruined the moment with a glance at his watch. “Time well wasted,” he sighed, turning back to the castle. “C'mon, Padfoot, Potions awaits."

“What? Oh, go on, we're right here."

"Got a pair of bludgers on you, have you? I’m not trying this now. If I'm getting detention, it had better be for a better reason than truancy.” He cast back a sardonic look, brown eyes bright and defiant. “That sort of thing's bad for the rep-u-tation.“

“You might think so," Sirius muttered, but he followed James reluctantly back across the grass. "What, then, am I meant to go make my individual apologies to the lot of them? 'Sorry to ditch you, thought I was being quite clear, but also deliberately unclear I suppose, regardless I only meant for us to have a good time'?"

“Four out of ten."

“'Fraid there's been more than ten, Prongs."

"I was rating your pants apology, but don't let that stop you bragging." James lifted the cigarette out of Sirius' hand and finished it himself. “Try on 'I didn't mean any harm' or some such equivalence. I hear personal responsibility is in vogue."

"Is that Euphemia speaking?"

James shrugged.

"Did you ask _her_ for advice on Evans?"

"No," James said, evasive.

Sirius stared. “Good Christ, you did."

"No, I don't—talk to my mum on purpose."

Sirius laughed darkly. 

"Shut up," said James. "I will venture that's why I'm winning at girls.”

"You think you're winning at girls? You think you're winning because your mum _loves you_?”

"Because I _talk_ to my mum. Oh, get stuffed," James said, shoving Sirius aside when he started making wanking motions. "Women like it when you like them back, that's all I’m saying.”

"I like women plenty for the both of us."

"Well, make them like you back, if you're so bored. Take it as a challenge, from me to you."

"They like me plenty for the both of us, too. You're not winning at girls," Sirius concluded.

"If less of them hate me, I'm winning."

"I've copped off with more—"

"It doesn't count if they hate you after."

"What kind of backwards logic—is this more of your _rules_ again?” Sirius gasped in realization. “Dear God, are these rules from your mother? Are you giving me _Euphemia's_ rules for engagement with the fairer sex?!”

"Mention my mother again," James threatened idly, twirling his wand in one hand.

“As your best mate, Prongs,” Sirius said solemnly, “it is my duty to inform you that this affair with your mother has gone on too long.”

Then James did hex him, and Sirius hexed him back, and they showed up to Potions late and muddied. It landed them in Sunday detention, but what else was new; at least Sirius would have company, and Remus would be off having his wolfmoon regardless. If he wasn’t missing anything important, being stuck scrubbing something unsavory with James was as fine as doing anything else.

  


  


  


Other problems, however, remained.

“Fuck me,” Sirius muttered, stepping into the Great Hall. He and James were a bit late for lunch—a re-do of the bludger trial, which went successfully enough, the Willow really ought to be a Beater for Gryffindor—which meant some people were already leaving their tables. 

Amal was among them. Just seeing her made Sirius feel the unfamiliar and unwelcome pull of guilt. James had ruined him. Amal was really... well, Sirius had spent long enough _not_ horizontal with her to figure that out that he liked her, at the very least, and he spent non-horizontal time with basically nobody, outside of the usual suspects. If even she felt he’d pulled a fast one, maybe there was some merit to the argument that he might have possibly, potentially… done that.

Unintentionally, of course, and therefore above reproach.

James may have been full of pompous motives, but he was right that Sirius didn’t need more enemies than he already had. If there was a chance Sirius could clear up this little misunderstanding, it was worth a go. It wasn’t as though he could make the situation all that worse.

“You’re banned from talking to me about birds, at all, ever again,” Sirius told James, pointing him toward Gryffindor table; and James brightened and clapped him on the back before bounding off as Sirius turned after Amal. 

"Oi, Amal!" Sirius called, jogging to catch up. 

Amal's feet dragged to a stop, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The look she gave Sirius could have wilted flowers.

Sirius smiled charmingly, hands on his hips. "You're looking fit."

Amal rolled her eyes and turned away.

Sirius chased after her, a gentle hand at her arm. "Sorry—I _am_ sorry, I am sorry, is what I'm saying.”

Amal turned back again, eyebrows arched. "You're sorry?"

"Yes," said Sirius winningly.

Amal scoffed. ”You're _sorry_.”

“Yes! Quickly sorted, glad we talked.”

“ _You,_ ” Amal said, grabbing Sirius' arm as he made to leave, "are _sorry._ ”

Sirius could now see it would not be that easy. "Yes," he said, solemn, feet drawing together. “I am.”

"For _what_."

Sirius resisted the strong urge to hex James from afar. “Well, you see... it was explained to me—"

"It was _explained_ to you."

"Yes.”

"How promising."

Sirius gave a pained grin. “Isn’t it? I mean, Amal, that I didn't intend to cause any… you know. Unhappiness, between us. In fact, the whole point of—er—"

"Two-timing?" she said hotly.

"No! That's the thing, I wasn't two-timing at all."

Amal covered her mouth with a loose fist, plainly disbelieving. God, she really had the most perfect eyes. "I wasn't," Sirius began, then opted to start over. "The thing is, I thought I was being clear. I'm the sort of bloke who doesn't settle on one—“

"Really!"

"Right!” he said, gesturing. “It’s not shocking to me either! Which is why I'm a bit surprised it was shocking to you." Sirius laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Surely you'd admit, in hindsight, that I have behaved exactly as advertised."

Amal moved to turn away again, but Sirius rushed after her, placing himself between her and the door. "Sorry," he said in a rush, "I am sorry, for—well, I enjoy your company, is the thing! An uncommon amount. I mean, not, you know… it's not like I'm _invested_ , or anything—”

"You are bloody awful at this,” she said sharply.

“Good sign that I'm trying, though, isn't it?"

"Not particularly."

Sirius cleared his throat. "I mean to say that I should have made it explicit that I don't, er… well, that I don't…" He stared, but Amal offered no solace. “That I only do one-time sort of affairs, ever. Absolutely everyone I've ever copped off with will tell you that, but—“

"Believe me, I've heard the stories."

Sirius gave a wan smile. “I have no doubt. As it was explained to me—yes I know,” he said as she rolled her eyes, “I’m a moron for not sorting this out myself, that's exactly the point I'm trying to make. I misled you, I understand that now, and it wasn’t my intention. I didn't intend to make you feel bad, toward me, at all."

"I believe you, Sirius.” 

The words were good, but the tone was not. Amal tried to push him aside with the back of her hand.

"Fuck, I'm bad at talking. I meant—” he pulled her back a final time. "I don't actually care what you think about me. You think I'm a cad? You're right, I am. I certainly behaved like one. Hate me all you want; I deserve it, fine. But I don't want you thinking I played you, because that's not what happened, not from my point of view. I truly thought… Well, I thought there was at least a chance we were on the same page, and I deliberately didn't clarify, and that was bad. But the problem is mine, not yours. It's got nothing to do with you. I think wonderfully of you. I don't want you to think any different."

Amal studied him with disdain, but she did seem to have listened to him. 

"I'm… Lesson learned.” Sirius saluted loosely, with a smile. "I will make it apparent next time that I, ah… plan to move on, right away."

Amal gave an incredulous laugh. "So to summarize this little catastrophe," she said, gesturing to Sirius as a whole, “you admit you're a cad, but you don't really mean to be."

"Exactly! Yes, so glad you understand.”

Amal’s unkind smile lingered as she assessed him, but her gaze was considering. "Alright," she said finally. "Apology registered, Sirius."

“Er—thank you," he said, a bit surprised. "Listen—no reason you should have an ounce of goodwill left toward me, but since your whisper network is apparently so widespread, would you consider relaying that we had this conversation through your channels? I don't care if you make fun of me or insult me or what have you, I just want it known that I'm only the worst person alive by accident, not intention.”

Amal had briefly looked like she intended to tell him how many ways he could go fuck himself, but then her brows fell from their incredulous perch. An expression crossed her face that Sirius did not recognize but instantly hated, a slight line forming above her nose. 

"Alright," she said, giving Sirius a strange final look.

"Thank you.” Then, feeling satisfied with himself, Sirius stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. "As you were." 

But as Sirius watched her leave the hall, he was suddenly struck that he had not even bothered to reminded her of all the things he'd done _right_. “We did have fun, Amal, though, surely,” he called as she left; and from the rude gesture he got in return, Sirius surmised his point was made.

Dating, Sirius felt certain, was a form of ritual humiliation. Far more trouble than it was worth. It really did seem like he was approaching critical mass of people who preferred it if he'd drop dead; dating was the cause in no small part. 

Usually these sorts of things didn't bother Sirius, but from critical mass or otherwise, he'd woken up this morning with a sincere desire not to get yelled at. There was no avoiding some of it, but he had put on what technically counted as robes, albeit worn untraditionally, in the hopes of getting through the day at decibels suited mostly to indoors. 

Then he got yelled at by Walburga, then yelled at by James, then cheerfully reprimanded by Slughorn, then yelled at again by Amal.

And it was only lunch. 

Part of it was Sirius' doing, but most of it was kismet. He couldn’t fight destiny, so he had largely stopped trying. Overslept? So be it. If he failed, he failed. Whether or not he lived to 17 wasn’t within his control anymore. A war was being mounted, Sirius meant to be a pawn, but recently he'd made himself a defector in the dubious promotion from object to target. 

At least pawns were of use. In disinheriting himself, he’d become a Death Eater liability. He didn't regret his decisions; he couldn't. It had been the only way forward. He’d known what he’d risked when he’d done it. At the end of the day, he'd sooner lose his life than his soul.

The burgeoning war shadowed him, hung over his head. Each sodding day he walked into the Great Hall expecting to see Orion, claiming him back. Regulus was watching him, sending mail back home. 

Sirius had to keep airs. He had to keep himself together.

That restless energy built back under his skin.

Gryffindor table was an oasis of reprieve. James, animated, was cracking saltines into his stew; Peter and Remus watched him, looking amused. Sirius felt a frantic stab of affection. The trust they’d built in their four-postered dorm over the years was all Sirius had left, his last remaining font of courage. Half the girls of Hogwarts may have thought ill of him, no teacher liked him much anymore, he planned to oppose his family with every move—but there was his merry band of idiots, laughing around every blasted corner. Giving purpose to Sirius' aimless days.

"That went well, then?" asked James, as Sirius sat down.

"It could certainly have gone worse.”

Peter perked up. “Really?”

"Call me a master of apologies.”

"How useful,” said Remus dryly, “to both your far and immediate futures.”

“O ye of little faith!” said Sirius, and frowned to realize he had already said that today. He reached to smack James across the table. “Don’t learn from Moony.”

"Oh, is James coming around to your antics?" Remus asked hopefully.

"More like he's coming around to yours.”

James looked between them with confusion, then seemed to conclude this was beneath his interest. “Amal's forgiven you, then?”

"No,” sighed Sirius. “But she did 'register' my apology, which seems like a step in the right direction. I even watched an invitation to go to hell die on her tongue in real time.”

"My," said Remus. "That is progress."

Sirius elected to ignore him. "You're only lucky I like you so much," he added to James.

At this, Remus looked between them, then stared resignedly into the middle distance. “Did you only do this because James told you to?”

"No," said Sirius, at the same time James said, "Yes."

“The age-old conundrum,” Remus muttered into his goblet. “Do the ends justify the means?”

“You see, Moony," Sirius said, brandishing a fork at James, “the logic is that Prongs' odds get better the less girls hate _me_.”

"Odds," said Remus, as James made abortive gestures across his throat. "With Lily Evans?"

Briefly torn between sheepishness and pride, James finally opted to boast his chest. "That's the general idea.”

Remus looked first at James, then to Sirius, then to the ceiling in apparent agony. Then, expression clearing, he reached for the nearest plate of pie. "Good luck to you both," he said cheerfully.

Remus was such a cipher, he never failed to entertain. “You go through five thousand emotions a minute,” Sirius told him fondly. “I’m dizzy just watching you."

"If you put half the attention you give me into your schoolwork, you'd be an academic marvel."

"Always on about this 'schoolwork' lark. Is it any good?"

"Quite good, I thought. Why not give it a go?”

Sirius cocked his head. He was doing that thing again, with his accent and his mouth. Now here was a man who cared about appearances. 

“Do you think I’m posh?” he asked Remus abruptly.

Remus cast his gaze up slowly, fork in his mouth. “Is this a trick question?”

“Sincere, I’m afraid. Try not to fuss.”

Remus held his eye, then arched a brow. “You are... quite posh. Are you not?”

James, the traitor, snickered into his stew. “Shut up,” Sirius said. “You’re forbidden from this topic. James is very concerned with our collective reputation," he told Remus.

“Let's not pretend this is about me," said James.

“It never is, is it? I only thought our good friend Remus here—”

“Always an omen,” Remus muttered.

“—might have opinions about how he sees me, as someone whose accent grows posher by the hour.”

Remus, somehow, had not predicted this turn. "I… What? No, it… doesn’t.”

“It does,” said Sirius, James and Peter in unison.

Never had Remus looked so offended. “It does not!"

"Even now! Listen to you! You know how you used to say ‘not’? Like you were from Slough.”

Remus sputtered his indignity. “I am from Slough!”

"Then why are you talking like a Muggle newsreader?” 

“I’m not!”

“You are," Sirius said gleefully. "Just over the summer, it's like you’ve swallowed a dictionary. Did you study for this, or have you instinctively picked it up? It’s very impressive, you barely slip at all when you’re sober.”

Remus looked at Sirius as though he had just mortally wounded him. "This is…"

"Preposterous?" Sirius suggested, enunciating deliberately.

James leaned in curiously. “Could it be our Moony doesn't even realize he's doing it?"

"Of course he realizes it, he's having us on. Feels a bit cornered at the moment,” he said, grinning. “Bit unhappy we've figured it out."

"Go fuck yourself," Remus said acidly. "I'd only hoped it wasn't noticeable."

Sirius laughed his triumph, easily catching the roll Remus threw at his head. "When you get drunk, it's a whole other matter. Like Lyall's ghost is living in you, desperate to come out and drop all those consonants."

"My father's alive."

"Alive people have ghosts, what d'you think a soul is?"

Remus scowled; Sirius felt an unaccountable thrill. “Why do you even notice all this?"

Sirius rested his chin affectionately in his palm. "It's only that you're not terribly subtle."

Remus gave him a complex look; then, seeming to pull confidence from some unknown place, he turned to face Sirius directly. "Coming back to _your_ accent," he said with venom, and Sirius realized abruptly he hadn't thought this through. "Just because you've been steeped in the wizarding upper class—"

"Aha!" James shouted, pointing at Sirius across the table.

"No _aha_ ,” said Sirius. "He hasn't said anything yet."

"Think how Regulus sounds," Remus said. "That's you."

Sirius recoiled. "Oh, take it back."

“Where do you think I adapted my accent from?"

“I don't sound like that," he protested. "I _don't_. You picked this up all your own, I can’t be blamed.”

“ _Cahn’t_ you?”

“Oh, shut up!”

It got Remus smiling, at the very least. “Why are you concerned about this? You seem to care even less about the opinion of others recently."

James waved a hand. “That's not strictly true. As shown by our lunchtime entertainment—”

"That's a good point," said Remus. 

Sirius flipped them the bird. "I actually don't want to be widely reviled," he admitted. "Don't spread that around. Though if I’m doomed to sound like Regulus, I see no way around it."

"Your words aren't Regulus', though," Remus pointed out. "That makes a world of difference.”

Sirius was so quickly mollified that it physically ached. “Thank... you," he said, and hoped he sounded convincingly disaffected. "Why do _you_ care about this, then? Why emulate… I mean, my God, Remus. Desperate fucking measures.”

Remus shrugged, a bit embarrassed. “Maximizes my odds at getting a job, I figure. If I get used to it now…"

“You know none of that matters in the wizarding world."

“It's looking increasingly likely I'm going to have to apply to Muggle jobs. That means attending a Muggle university, which means forging the documents for a Muggle education. This will be substantially easier to do with public school records, and if I don't _sound_ like I went to public school—”

“Good Christ, Moony. We're not abandoning you to the _Muggles._ ”

Remus shot him a dark look. “I won’t rely on anyone."

“Don't be stupid.”

“I’m not. _I’m_ not. What position might you be in, exactly, to help me if you’ve failed all your OWLs? You'll need to work now, disinherited as you are.”

Sirius blinked. Remus did always know where to stick the blade. He looked to James for support, but James only looked similarly concerned. 

Sirius' stomach dropped fast. "Lovely."

"Sorry," said Remus—sounding it, to his credit. "It's just concerning to me that you have no inclination to protect your future." 

"Oh, fuck off out of it, Remus, how's that for an idea? You worry about your future, I'll worry about mine."

Remus looked plainly astonished by his severity, but James stepped in before he could reply. "No one's falling behind,” he said firmly. “That's why there's four of us. We're all getting by, furry little problem or otherwise, disownment or otherwise. So you can stop your wondering and have a little trust." James kicked Peter under the table. "Right?"

"Er," said Peter, looking confused. "Right."

Usually a bad sign when James saw fit to play mediator, but it had the effect of getting them to shut up. James was, of course, the reason they'd all come together; he'd been the one to drag them out of their shells, the one to deliver them from dormmates to mates. Sirius and Remus were always too stubborn to lay off, Pete too uncertain to intervene—and James had his faults, sure. But he also had the clearest vision of the lot.

"It's a nice sentiment," Remus said at last. "But it's no excuse for not pulling my weight.” Then, to prove his commitment to the path, Remus pulled his textbook closer and pretended to read it, signalling a close to the conversation.

Sirius was still annoyed, but he was more tired of arguing. He looked around for something to eat. "Is there no treacle tart?"

Remus selected a plate without looking, passing it into Sirius' arms. "Eat an actual food."

So presented with a steak and kidney pie, Sirius elected to take it as a gesture of reconciliation. Still, the drive to needle at Remus was slightly stronger than his common sense. "What are you reading, then?"

"It is our Charms textbook.” Remus pressed his fingers against his temple—wolf headache, maybe? Could be the relentless barbs had nothing to do with Sirius at all. “Same one we've used all year. I strongly advise you pick it up at some point.”

"Charms is tomorrow.”

"Yes.”

“Read it tonight like everybody else."

"Tonight you will undoubtedly bait me into some kind of chicanery, I am simply charged to find out what, and I should like to have my homework done before then.”

"Don't hurt yourself, Moony. That much sarcasm's liable to drown a man."

Remus' fingers made circles at both temples, now. Definitely a wolf headache. "The only reason I haven't fallen behind already is because of lunchtime study. You're usually too distracted to pay attention to what I'm doing; I beg you to return to such a state so I may again know peace."

“’ _So I may again know peace_ ’. Did you actually swallow a hardback, Moony? Might've liked to have seen that, invite me next time."

Remus turned the book in his direction. "If you insist on running your mouth, make yourself useful and test me."

"Test you on what? You already know everything." But Sirius accepted the book. Remus did invariably know the answer to every question he was asked, so Sirius supposed such testing was meant to help _him_. Though Sirius had no interest in learning on someone else's terms, he indulged Remus just to keep him feeling helpful. He liked to be helpful; his Howler obsession proved that much. Shoving a pie or textbook into Sirius' hands was his way of showing he cared. 

And Sirius let it happen—his way of response. Little bedtime stories they told each other. 

"Flattery gets you nowhere," said Remus.

"Flattery gets me everywhere all the time. Let me see… alright, there we are. Name the charm to inflate someone's head."

Remus beset him with a bland look. "I suppose I'm meant to say 'Reminus Lupinus'."

"I was thinking 'Jaminus Potterus', actually, but if you prefer to insult yourself, I shan't argue."

James, who had been bored enough by their banter to let his gaze wander Lilyward, turned back sharply. "Oi!"

“Damn it all.” Sirius returned the book to Remus' hands. "Really thought I might get that one in unnoticed."

And as Remus' face split into a grin, Sirius dug into his pie with artificial purpose. The afternoon would be easy, at the very least; he would only have to figure out what sort of _chicanery_ to get up to in the evening. He was not one to disappoint marauding expectations.

  


  


That was before, however, taking the Death Eaters into account.

  



	3. Drastic Measures

  


Sirius was squinting at him. Remus could almost hear his instinct to be obnoxious powering up. 

"You're looking pensive, Moony," he said.

"He always looks pensive," said James. 

Remus had in fact been pondering a combination of things: the argument with Sirius at lunch; the fact that Sirius was wearing robes for the first time in weeks; the fact that Sirius had done unusually well in Potions today, despite his tardiness; the fact the Whomping Willow appeared unharmed by morning events. It all seemed very—

"That's just his face," said James.

"No," said Sirius. "This is prank-tier pensive."

"You can't tell that," said James.

"I can,” Sirius said. He turned to walk backward down the hall to better study Remus while moving. This was a recent and reckless habit, undertaken with the trust that James and Remus would stop him running into anything. "What have you got for us, Moony? What stroke of genius through yonder window breaks?"

"Just thinking about the magical properties of runes," said Remus. He had been thinking of it, forty minutes ago. It wasn't strictly a lie.

"Now there's a change," said James.

“But here's the thing," Remus said; Sirius, thinking he'd been proven right, barked a triumphant laugh. Remus quelled the mad bubble of joy that formed at having been the cause of the only true smile Sirius had given all day. He’d been thinking about this for a long time, actually—since they’d started throwing ideas for the map around last year. He just hadn’t wanted to say anything before he was sure. "What makes runes distinctive is that they _are_ magical. That’s unique among writing forms. Written spells in our language have no magic inherent in them at all, not the way waving a wand and speaking them aloud does. On the other hand, if they're written in Runic, the runes themselves cast spells as long as they’re written correctly.” 

“The writing itself performs magic?” James asked, squinting.

“Exactly.” Remus diverted Sirius from running bodily into a passing first-year with a gentle prod at his hip. “It solves the problem of figuring out how to enchant the map. If we use runes, the map will simply be enchanted. There are complications, but it's more about the semiotics than anything.”

"Hear that, Prongs?" said Sirius, smacking James in the chest. “It’s about the semiotics."

"Other magical artefacts use runes all the time.”

James abruptly seemed to realize where he was going with this. "Oh. Like pensieves.“ 

They had stopped in the middle of the corridor, as they sometimes did when a discussion became significant. Sirius' gaze fixed on something over Remus' shoulder. James was distracted as Lily skirted around them with her her motley crew. “Those,” Remus agreed. “Warding spells, another example. Sustained spells like the ones that protect the castle—I’d guess runes are somehow involved. Most of the magic we cast with wands is temporary. Once a wizard is distracted or casts another spell, the spell breaks. Runes work around that. It’ll keep the magic on the map permanent.”

“Old magic, like,” James muttered, eyes fixed on Lily.

“Well—yes. But we must be cautious. It will take years of research. The reason Runic fell out of common use—"

"Is because the act of reading and writing them is dangerous." James' voice grew more sure as Lily disappeared out of sight, turning into the Great Hall. At last his gaze returned to Remus. “We get it wrong—any manner of trouble.“

“Exactly. But if we can figure out how Pensieves operate, how runes can cast the magic of their own volition whether someone’s casting them or not, we might have a good start.“

“Holy Christ,” said Sirius. Remus had only barely drawn his attention from whatever had distracted him, but he was looking at Remus with faint awe. “You have cracked this.”

“Only theoretically.” Remus allowed a small smile. “It’s known magic, technically, but not in the ways we’re using it. We will essentially be creating new Runic configurations to suit our purposes with no guidance at all. We can hardly contact known runologists lest we—”

“Why not?” said James.

Remus blinked. “What?”

“Why not? My father knows a man. Nice chap. Seemed to like me well enough, even though I accidentally set his hat on fire. I’ll write him, see what he won’t tell us.”

“James,” Remus warned, but James waved a hand. 

“Worst that can happen is that he tells my father I’m more interested in Runes than I actually am. Make me sound more studious than reality allows.” He slapped a hand hard against Remus’ shoulder. “How long have you been sitting on that?”

“Not long.”

“It’s fucking genius," Sirius said, though his gaze was still caught on something down the hall.

“Apart from being linguistically complicated, we also have to modify the magics in complex ways,” Remus said, allowing the flush to live and die behind his ears. "The runes would somehow have to be invisible if we don't want just anyone to be able to understand how we made it. Necessary measure, if we don't want it dismantled."

"I can do that," Sirius muttered.

"Can you?"

“Sure. Diary charm. Page is still functionally inked but you can't see it, you've got to—"

But he pressed his mouth suddenly, reaching for his wand.

Remus looked over his shoulder, but James tutted and redirected his gaze with a playful nudge at his jaw. "Do me a favour and keep talking about runes, Moony, there’s a good lad.”

Remus sighed, but he complied. If someone was about to be cursed, he was better off not knowing about it anyway. "Our first problem is writing an automatic translation process from Runic to English,” Remus said tersely. It could not be plainer that no one was listening. “If we want the map to be able to obey verbal commands in English, we'll have to do it the other way around as well or else it’ll display in Runic. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find a translation spell. First thing might be to create one."

"Create a translation spell?" James asked vaguely. His eyes were fixed on Sirius, whose eyes were still fixed over Remus' shoulder. "Can you do that?"

"Not sure." Remus was growing more nervous by the second. The corridor was nearly empty, tension growing in the silence's wake. "Harder still to make one without the translations coming out sounding like logograms. If we say 'map on' and the map spits words back out as 'quintaped roonspoor hydra', that's not going to be very useful." 

Still watching Sirius, James spun his own wand idly into his hand. "Right." 

Remus decided there was no point continuing. "Who is it?"

"Mulciber," Sirius muttered. "Can't see—"

"There you are," said Peter breathlessly, coming up beside them. "I can never find you lot after Runes." 

Remus risked a glance behind him, but he only saw Mulciber in the corridor, alone. He had his back to the lot of them. It might have looked like nothing, if not for the wand in his hand. 

"D'you smell the roast?" Peter asked, in perfect ignorance. "I could have sworn it was Wednesday."

"Nope," James said, watching Sirius carefully. "Thursday, Pete." Then he frowned at him, distracted at last. “You didn't get through a whole day's schedule thinking it was the wrong day of the—”

Sirius took his opportunity. He pushed past James, wand rising. 

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” 

Even as Remus turned, he knew something was wrong. A disarming spell flashed crimson, but the light that filled the corridor was a sickly blue.

A distant gasp echoed. Whatever had happened had not slowed Sirius down. He flicked his wand viciously, and Mulciber—now disarmed, for Sirius’ spell had landed and his wand arcing toward Sirius through the air—was hoisted into the air by his ankle. 

It turned out Mulciber was not alone at all. A small witch materialized where he had stood—collapsed, unconscious, on the floor.

Sirius did not falter. He raised his wand again, voice ringing too clear and too loud in the corridor. “ _Incarcerus!_ ”

Ropes spilled out of Sirius' wand. They wrapped tightly around Mulciber where he hung in the air. 

Maybe to back him up, or maybe seeing in Sirius the same thing Remus did, James started to move toward him. But Remus stopped him with a hand at his arm. "Don’t,” he said quietly.

A glance behind them proved what he'd suspected. As though on cue, Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Coyne appeared in the entrance to the Great Hall, wands in hand.

Sirius had not noticed them at all. He had not slowed down. Remus thought about calling out, but at the bound form of Mulciber, Sirius was now levelling a stupefaction spell—in full view of teachers. There was no saving him now.

"Sirius Black!" shouted McGonagall; then, just as quickly—“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

That stopped him dead. Both wands pulled effortlessly out of Sirius' hands. He faltered to a stop, hands folding into fists. For a moment, the form of Mulciber hung in the air as though suspended there by sheer force of will.

Then he dropped quickly, slowed by a quick-thinking charm from Flitwick. Coyne was only a middling teacher, but one could not fault her bravery; she moved quickly to the unconscious girl's side, passing by Sirius and Mulciber without so much as a sidelong glance. 

Flitwick was placing himself between Sirius and the rest of them, as though he believed his diminutive stature might reasonably shield them from anything Sirius might do. James, meanwhile, was breathing hard. His eyes fixed on Sirius, isolated and alone. 

Remus felt sure James was wondering why the hell he wasn’t standing there by Sirius’ side. Remus was wondering the same thing. They should all be there, Remus arguably most of all. If Mulciber was cursing a student… 

It’d all happened so fast. Why hadn’t Sirius said anything? Now he was being treated like a threat, and the rest of them as though they needed protection—from _him_. Not from Mulciber. 

It wasn’t difficult to see the writing on the wall.

"Black," McGonagall said. Her voice was unyielding, surprisingly quiet. It did not hold its usual authority. Her own wand was in one hand, Sirius and Mulciber's in the other. "Explain yourself.”

For a moment, nothing changed. Coyne knelt by the girl's side, checking her vitals; Remus did not recognize the girl offhand. Beside her, Mulciber lay unmoving, stupefied, still coiled tightly in rope. With a frustrated glance behind him, James pulled his arm free of Remus' hand, but his grip loosened somewhat on his wand.

"Is she dead?” Sirius asked, voice flat.

Remus' blood turned cold. Sirius’ voice was ravaged. He did not sound innocent. He sounded, in fact, like someone who had cursed someone three times without a shred of remorse.

Flitwick was still trying to usher the three of them back, but James, inches taller, was keeping himself within line of sight. Remus, concerned, tried to pull at his elbow again, but got a sharp look of betrayal for his trouble.

McGonagall's eyes did not leave Sirius; Sirius’ did not leave the girl. 

"Andrea?" called McGonagall.

"Alive," Coyne said; Remus let out an audible sigh of relief. "Gravely hurt, I can't tell what from. I'm going to take her to Hospital Wing."

“Do." Then, her chin tilting in Sirius’ direction, McGonagall let her voice drop. "Did you do this?"

Sirius’ breath was heaving, his back still turned. “Tell Pomfrey to use Wiggenweld,” he said. “It’ll stabilize her, I promise.”

Now Remus heard the shake in Sirius' voice. If he wasn’t going to act right, he at least had to sound appropriately grieved. 

"Professor," Remus muttered to Flitwick, suddenly fevered with the desire to intervene. "Sirius didn't—"

"Not now," Flitwick said distractedly. From Flitwick’s behavior, the drawn expression on James’ face, and McGonagall’s hushed tone, Remus opted for silence. He was beginning to think there was something here he didn't understand. 

Slowly, McGonagall raised her wand, circling it silently in the air. The bounds around Mulciber slackened and unwound. 

"Is he only stunned?" she asked Sirius.

At that moment, Slughorn elected to wall in. 

"Hullo all," he said cheerfully, plainly oblivious to the scene. The remnants of his whistling echoed off the walls. He nodding to Flitwick and their conglomeration small conglomeration with a hearty wink. "Having a pre-roast meeting to strategize, are we? Very smart, very smart.“

But as Slughorn looked down the hall, his expression fell. It was only once he saw the crowd of spectators forming at the Great Hall's entrance that he seemed to decide to involve himself. "What's all this, Minerva?"

"Horace," McGonagall said shortly. "Mulciber over there has been stunned quite forcefully. Would you be so kind as to accompany him to the Hospital Wing? Please instruct Poppy to keep him there until further notice, he is not to be released after Enervation. Is that all he’ll need, Black?“

“No replacement for his personality.”

There was no levity in his tone, the delivery flat, but Remus could not believe Sirius dared joke at all.

“Do not,” McGonagall warned him, and her voice reached such a low pitch that she need not have elabourated to make herself clear. “Horace, if you please.”

"Er," said Slughorn. "Right." He cast a mournful glance toward the Great Hall, but set off toward Mulciber.

"Black,” said McGonagall. “To my office. Come quietly."

"Once Janey is clear."

So Sirius knew the girl. Was this significant?

"I think not,” said McGonagall. “Come with me now."

If Sirius had any real thought of fight, Remus saw no trace of it in his body. James, on the other hand, was a different story. 

Flitwick, seeming to believe the situation contained, now risked turning his back on Sirius and was pushing the three of them back with more vigor. "Move along now," Flitwick said as James kept peering, features set. "Move along." He finally resorting to jabbing James in the side with his wand, and James briefly looked as though he might resort to shotputting a professor bodily down the corridor.

"Professor," Remus said. "We saw what happened. Sirius didn't attack the girl, he couldn't have. He cast a disarming spell—"

"Thank you, Mr. Lupin," Flitwick said. As they approached the Great Hall, he seemed only just to have realized how big the crowd of onlookers was. If the teachers had heard Sirius cursing Mulciber, the whole hall must have, and now nearly the whole school appeared to be trying to catch a glimpse of what happened, a wall of teachers valiantly holding them back. "We'll collect statements in short order," Flitwick went on. "In the meantime, let's all get back to supper, shall we? I do look forward to Thursday roast…"

"I don't like this," James muttered, allowing himself to be shepherded inside. Sirius and McGonagall had slipped around the corner and out of sight. "I didn't even _see_ that girl."

"That's Janey Marchbanks," Peter offered. Remus looked to him, surprised. "She's a year above us in Hufflepuff."

"A year _above_ us?" asked James. "I'd have clocked her for 13."

"She's a bit on the small side," Peter said defensively. "Doesn't mind to squeeze into a corner if it means she goes unseen." Now Remus understood why Peter knew her; he had an eye for that sort of thing, for what passed by underfoot. "But with the smaller classes, you know, being sixth year and all, I think she's having a harder time staying out of sight."

"Let me guess," James said darkly. "She's Muggleborn."

"Well," muttered Peter, "I don't think she's pureblood, in any case."

"Alright," James said quietly. "Let's put our heads together then, chaps, and figure this out."

"I don't think we're going to be able to 'figure out' unexpelling Sirius," said Remus.

"You don't think they would," said Peter, shocked.

"They would," James said darkly. "Way he's been acting? If this was a set-up, and Slytherin did it up right…”

“Set-up,” said Remus. “Set up what?”

“There's no reason for Mulciber to have been there, to do that in plain sight. It doesn't make any sense." 

That hadn't even occurred to Remus. "What do you know, James?"

James looked at him, then cast a casual look over his shoulder. Remus followed his gaze—

And at the Slytherin table, Prefects parked on either side, Regulus made eye contact and imparted a cold, deliberately provocative smile.

"Mulciber didn't have back up," James muttered, turning back. "It doesn't look massively coordinated, so I can't be sure. But I'd say, on the whole, we are really fucking lucky that didn't turn into a massive dust-up. Could be it was meant to expel us all.“

And as James brooded and prodded at his roast, it became clear to Remus that James didn't actually know what had happened. Whatever information Sirius hadn't seen fit to share had also not been significantly shared with James.

They poked at their dinner, neither eating nor speaking (Peter ate fine, actually) as the whisper of gossip broadened to a brook. Soon the talk in the Hall sounded as it always did, the incident forgotten by everyone but them. 

But McGonagall never came back to dinner, and neither did Sirius. Nor Mulciber, nor Janey Marchbanks; even Slughorn missed his beloved loaf. Nor was Dumbledore anywhere to be seen.

They didn’t need to name their suspicions to see the writing on the wall.

  



	4. Resistances

  


A defiling concept, thought Sirius, his wand pressing up against Mulciber's like that. He wondered how best to clean it, now that he'd be living in the Forbidden Forest, but came up short. Leaves would work, but what kind of leaves? Was there such a thing as a polishing leaf? He should have paid better attention in Herbology. But then he realized his wand was probably about to be snapped in front of him, so that was one less thing to worry about.

Sirius was surprised his escort wasn't more considerable, under the circumstances. Coyne had left with Janey Marchbanks, Slughorn with Voldemortfucker, which left Flitwick their only flank, scurrying after them once he'd broken up the crowd. 

On the other hand, the instantaneous appearance of more than one professor in the corridor had suggested they'd predicted a bad outcome where Sirius was involved. He’d like to say he didn’t blame them, but he did. He blamed them, and Mulciber, and his wretched parents, and his horrible kid brother, and everyone involved in landing him here. Sirius hadn't bothered trying to explain himself, and that was because he knew better: they'd believe what they wanted. They always did.

McGonagall led him wordlessly through the halls, her shoes clapping impressively against stone. It might have been the last time he was led by McGonagall's bonny stride to face trouble—may as well find some poetry in it. In the gloom of late October, the corridors had become draughty. The chill gave Hogwarts an open, airy feel—a sharp contrast to Grimmauld Place. Almost nothing about Hogwarts felt suffocating, and even when it did, there were grounds to escape to: open air, endless hidden corridors. Little here felt oppressive to him anymore.

It was not lost on Sirius that he had gone and gotten himself expelled from the only home he had left, but it seemed fitting for the times. At this point he may as well set fire to the whole damn thing, to all of Britain—flee to the moon to watch it burn.

McGonagall opened the door to her office, gesturing to the chair. "Filius," she said, as Sirius shouldered his way in. "Would you tell Dumbledore what has transpired—he is dining with the Minister upstairs—and that I have brought Sirius Black to my office? Tell him I would not ask for his presence if it wasn't dire."

"Minerva," said Flitwick, nervous. “Surely—"

"I am quite capable of holding my own against a wandless 15-year-old, thank you, Filius.”

Flitwick sighed, but he left the room. Sirius didn't look up. Once sat, he leaned his elbows on his knees. The bitter taste of nausea had found its home in his mouth. He intended to face this with his head held high, but no amount of pressure against his palm was able to quell the shake in his hands.

He hadn't wanted this. He’d wanted to _stop_ it from getting this far. But Death Eaters always made things worse.

McGonagall's fire cast the only light in the room, as it always did. He hadn't realized it until now, but Sirius had come to like this office. How often he'd been forced to argue for his freedom within it, how often he’d won. Reason reigned among these walls. 

There was something strangely comforting—though he'd never have admitted it—in hearing a stern woman say she expected better of you and being given the chance to meet expectations. No more chances now. The fire, that figment of fabricated welcome, burnt swaths of orange into the lids of his eyes. A log cracked under the flames. The grandfather clock in the corner marked his final seconds.

"Tell me what happened," McGonagall said quietly, sitting down. "In your own words. Leave nothing out."

Sirius shook his head.

"This is not optional."

“You’ve already decided what I’ve done.”

McGonagall leaned sternly across the desk, leering. “Sirius,” she said. The use of his given name was jarring. “If you say nothing, you risk expulsion.”

Sirius laughed humourlessly. "Wouldn't want that."

“What more is there to lose by doing as I ask?”

There was reason in that. He sighed, looking up. “We were going to dinner,” he said flatly.

”You," she clarified. "Potter, Pettigrew—"

"No. Me, James, Remus. We came out of Runes, Peter doesn't take it. He wasn't part of this. None of them were, they… they weren't part of this.”

McGonagall nodded. "Go on."

"Remus was explaining something."

“Explaining what?”

“Runes? Theoretical runes. It’s not relevant.”

“Go on.”

“We stopped in the halls because he was saying something interesting. I saw Mulciber standing alone. He had his wand out. I didn't see Janey at all, I couldn't sort out what he was doing. I stalled for a while, wanted to see what happened." 

"Why?"

“What d’you mean, why? He had his wand out.”

“This is a school of magic, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I know it’s a school of magic, but it—”

When he clammed up, McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

“There's only one reason for a—for a Slytherin to be standing alone with his wand,” he said darkly.

“That seems,” McGonagall said coldly, “demonstrably untrue.”

“I know I've been warned against 'casting aspersions’, but he cursed Janey Marchbanks, didn’t he? Wasn’t I right?”

“Is that what happened?”

“Yes! Yes, goddamn you, it’s what bloody well happened!”

Sirius heard the words as though they’d been shouted by someone else, but they’d been shouted by him.

He collapsed in his chair, expecting McGonagall to break his wand then and there, but she only stared at him. “Sirius Black,” she said slowly. “You will address me with respect.”

“Yes, Mother.”

He expected her to throw the book at him for that, but unless he was mistaken, the stern line of her mouth threatened to draw into a smile. “Do you wish to remain in this school?” she asked, very quiet.

Sirius looked to some corner of the ceiling, one elbow propped over the back of the chair, saying nothing.

“If you do,” McGonagall told him, “now would be the time to toe the line.”

Sirius did look at her then. He hadn’t expected he still had a chance of staying.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes. _Professor._ ”

She nodded her satisfaction and leaned back. His wand and Mulciber’s sat idle on her desk. “Go on.”

"He had a combat stance.”

“Describe it.”

“I don’t know? He was hulking, he was… you know how Mulciber is.” But McGonagall only stared, and Sirius threw up his hands. “Alright! Christ, it's like pulling teeth with you. He had his back to the rest of the corridor, he was clearly stood _over_ something. I didn’t see Marchbanks, but he had an arm sort of—not raised, exactly, but held aloft, the way you do when you’re thinking about angling a curse. It’s a _threat_. Surely you know what a threat is.”

“Do try to leave out the condescension, won’t you,” McGonagall said, fingers propped against her temple, “when using your own words.” 

“Well, I turned out to be right, so I don’t see why—“

"Press on, Black."

Sirius shut his eyes in frustration. “I saw him raise his wand—in the active way, not the threat way. I should have stopped him sooner.”

“Attack another student just for issuing threats?”

“Right lot better than what the faculty are doing. He tried to eviscerate her, Professor, but no one did shit all but me. For all the good it managed.”

McGonagall blinked at him a moment, seeming to separate the strands of conversation. “How did you try to stop him?" she asked at last. “I mean specifics. What spell?”

“I disarmed him,” he said wearily. “Saw the girl crumple, so I got him out of the way."

"You mean you levitated him."

"Yes."

“I am fair certain, Black, that Professor Flitwick did not teach you that particular levitation spell. Am I correct in that presumption?”

Sirius pressed his mouth.

McGonagall set her own wand down on the desk beside his and Mulciber’s. The knot loosened in his chest. She was unarmed now; she trusted him that much at least. “I believe the incantation is _Levicorpus_ ,” she said.

She clearly knew; there was no point lying. "Yes."

"A nonverbal spell. Nonstandard."

"Yes."

"Where did you learn it?"

He had learned it from Regulus. But it wouldn’t do to admit it.

Incredibly, McGonagall seemed willing to let the subject go. Sirius assumed she knew the answer to that question, too. “You said Mulciber eviscerated Janey Marchbanks.”

“He made a solid go of it, Professor.”

“Did you recognize the curse he used?”

"Yes."

Sirius awaited the next question, but McGonagall seemed to be waiting for him.

“Please describe what happened,” she said again, “in your own words.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. He’d slid halfway out of his chair by now. Whatever anger had churned in him on entering the office had mostly evolved; now he felt liquid, and not in a pleasant way. "Corridor flashed purple. She… the way she… collapsed.” He wasn’t sure how to explain this, had to be careful about his words.

McGonagall's expression was briefly conflicted. Was that sympathy? “It’s affected you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, it was horrible, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” McGonagall agreed softly. Sirius couldn’t read her at all anymore, but if she—if she seemed willing to give him a chance—

What did she know? What would condemn him, if he ventured to admit it? 

Either it was a trap, or it wasn’t. He knew one thing before, had researched it at length: they didn’t put underage wizards in Azkaban. Not yet, anyway.

“I’ve seen it before,” he croaked. “The spell he used.”

McGonagall nodded, like she expected this. “Where?”

"It's a Death Eater curse. The ones who follow—"

"Yes," McGonagall cut in. "I'm aware who they follow."

Sirius stared. He wasn’t sure he’d expected that. “You are?”

"You are not the only one… Breathe, Black.”

He hadn’t realized he wasn’t, but it was suddenly difficult to work his lungs. If she knew—and if she knew of the Infliction—

McGonagall was on her feet, but instead of closing around her wand, she moved to the fire and put the kettle over it upon its hook. "Sirius, take a breath," she said, firm. "Try to think clearly."

He was thinking clearly. He was alone and he had no wand, but he had age, speed, and a possible advantage on weight. He was used to a fight. That would help him. If he had to, he could snatch someone’s wand back—maybe not his own. Maybe Mulciber’s.

"Whose side,” he said slowly, “are you on?" 

McGonagall looked to him sharply. Her expression evolved: accusation, then realization, then pity. He _hated_ the pity. “I am on yours.”

“And which side is that? Just for clarity. In your own words, Professor.”

She smiled slightly and said nothing.

“If you support Voldemort, you can go ahead and kill me,” Sirius said, coarse. “I won’t go back, not ever. I’ll make it easy for you.“ He spread his hands wide.

"I am most certainly not on You-Know-Who’s side,” she hissed as she sat back down. She still did not reach for her wand. “You will never come to harm by my hands, Black; not while you live under this roof, as long as you toe the line. I am your head of house. It is my duty to protect you. That is the proper role of an authority, and one I intend to fill."

It took Sirius a second to realize the rushing in his head was a feeling of relief. His shoulders collapsed, his teeth unsticking. "You know who he is? You’ve known all about him all this time?”

McGonagall blinked, then drew her hands slowly together on the desk. "He might operate in secret,” she said quietly; “the press may not be effusive on his organization. But people have taken notice, Sirius. Measures are being taken."

"Who?" asked Sirius. “What measures?”

McGonagall stared at him, mouth pulling to one side. "Would you like a calming draught, Black?”

"No.” Sirius realized his whole body was shaking. “I—have no bleeding idea who the enemy is most of the time. I'm sorry." He meant it. He believed her; he thought she believed him too.

"It's alright."

Sirius took some time to digest his new knowledge. “How much do you know?" he asked. “I mean you, specifically.”

McGonagall offered him a fragile smile. "I must remind you of the purpose of this meeting,” she said. “For the time being, I’m afraid that is for me to ask the questions. I should like to wait for Dumbledore's discretion before trespassing certain subjects, including this one, any further. Do you understand me, Black?” 

Sirius' throat had bricked, but he nodded, rubbing his palm against the chair. He was overwhelmed; a feeling of wild liberation lived in his chest. 

He was not alone with this. He was not nearly so alone as he’d thought.

"We will return to Mulciber in a moment," said McGonagall, "at which time I will ask you to again be truthful. But you may decide that answering this next question poses risk to you, and there is no penalty for not answering. Is _that_ clear?"

Sirius nodded.

"What can you tell me about this spell?"

Sirius blinked his surprise. "The Infliction?”

McGonagall nodded.

“Ah… it’s fairly new. At least I think it is. Its incantation is _Kedavra Pugna_. From what I can tell, Death Eaters invented it as—“

"Let's not incur more risk than necessary for the time being,” McGonagall interrupted, holding up a hand. “I meant to ask only about the spell's effects. Are you quite sure you wouldn't like a calming draught?"

"No," Sirius said, clearing his throat. It was one thing to think Orion was ten paces behind him at all times, but it was another to hear a teacher entrench his paranoia in reason: there was risk to his defection. Divulging his secrets had a cost. "I don't know everything about it, but,” massaging his palm hard enough with his thumbs to shift the bones painfully in his hand, “it seems to have varying effects depending on the strength of the incantation. It seems fairly new, like I said; I'm not sure even they yet know how to use it. Cast silently or weakly, it's analogous to a slow-acting Draught of Living Death: bruises the organs, effects worsening over time left untreated. Reversible, but only if you catch it in time. Cast with sufficient strength, though, and it… well, Professor, I think it has the potential to explode them. Just from what I understand about the construction of the spell; it may not be total—”

"The construction."

"You know how to spells are made."

McGonagall stared. Sirius had no idea how to interpret the silence.

“Well, they—we—” Fuck. “They've been advised to test it out. ’We’ because young… inexperienced wizards are better, because… well, they’re more likely to figure it out. How to cast it, I mean. Their wand motions are less precise, so they might find how to strengthen it purely by accident, and of course weaker as well. Consequences being what they are for adults trying to cast it, it's not the same with kids—”

“They’re recruiting children.”

“Yes, Christ, yes. Are you telling me you’ve walked Hogwarts' halls without seeing it for yourself? You can’t be that blind.”

McGonagall pursed her mouth and said nothing.

“I didn't cast it on Janey," he said harshly. "If I never cast it, it'll be too soon. What I know and what I do aren't the same.“

McGonagall nodded. Somehow, it was enough to calm him. "It's treated with Wiggenweld?" she asked.

"Yes." He collapsed against the bones of the chair.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help?"

"Any… any application of dittany, maybe? I don’t know, I’m not cut out for healing.” He thought of Remus’ self-inflicted scratches and how dittany mended them better than the rest. But he could hardly say as much.

McGonagall’s attention was diverted by the boiling kettle, but she nodded her thanks as she rose. Again her back turned to the trio of wands, and Sirius felt his breathing settle again. "Conjuration,” she said idly, preparing the tea, “is very advanced Transfiguration."

“I’ve heard that.”

"So is nonverbal spellwork."

“That’s what the textbooks say.”

McGonagall sat down, setting a teacup and saucer in front of Sirius’ chair. “I feel certain,” she said slowly, “you did not learn _Incarcerus_ from me. So I can’t help but wonder—”

“You know me, Professor,” Sirius said with false cheer. “I’ve always been one for certain extracurriculars.”

McGonagall only peered at him down her nose. Sirius pressed his mouth, dragged his fingernails across his palm. "I didn't harm him permanently," he said at last. “Though I should have.”

“Toe the line, Black.”

“Yes, Professor,” he parroted back in self-mockery.

McGonagall stared for slightly longer than was comfortable. She seemed on the brink of saying something, but a disturbance in the fireplace interrupted her.

Dumbledore materialized seconds later, stepping out gracefully, brushing himself off as the fire shifted behind him. "Good evening," he said, looking pleasantly between them.

"I apologize for interrupting your dinner, Albus," McGonagall said, rising to pour a third cup of tea.

"Not at all,” Dumbledore said. He looked as he ever did: faintly wondering, eminently comforting, wearing midnight blue robes adorned with small stars. "On the same account, however, I will attempt to be brief. I trust Filius' version of events was roughly accurate?"

"Black claims Mulciber cast the Infliction on Janey Marchbanks, though he admits to cursing Mulciber himself."

"I see." He looked at Sirius contemplatively. That Dumbledore needed no explanation of the Infliction seemed indicative—of what, he wasn’t clear. "And which wand is Mr. Mulciber's, please?"

McGonagall reached and handed it to him. Dumbledore presented it to Sirius for visual evaluation.

Confused by this, Sirius merely nodded; Dumbledore nodded in kind. He drew Mulciber's wand aside in a horizontal motion, his fingers seeming to draw something out of its tip; and from its end came the ghost of the spell: a small flash of purple light, a symbol he didn't recognize appearing in a faint puff of smoke.

"Where is your owner, please?" Dumbledore asked the wand, setting it in the palm of his hand. Abruptly it swivelled in the direction of the Hospital Wing, safely failing to implicate Sirius.

Satisfied, Dumbledore replaced the wand on the desk and pressed a hand at Sirius' shoulder. "In the future, Sirius,” he said kindly, “you are strongly encouraged to find a member of staff when someone is being illicitly cursed, rather than putting yourself in the unfortunate position of facing punishment for actions you did not instigate."

Though Sirius knew this was meant to be soothing, its effect was infuriation. "What else might he have done to Janey Marchbanks while I ran off?” Sirius asked, incredulous, fighting to tamp his fury down. “I was trying to _stop him_ , not find someone else to deal with the fallout."

In the low light of the fire, Dumbledore studied him. Then, conjuring a purple armchair in neatly midair, Dumbledore settled himself comfortably into it, steepling his fingers in front of his face. 

"It is my understanding," he said, "that you continued to attack Mulciber after he was already incapacitated. Can you explain this action?"

"I was—" Sirius' chest heaved; he was suddenly out of breath again. "Look—he's _evil_ , Professor. He is a Death Eater, and Death Eaters are evil. _Voldemort_ is evil. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that?"

"I see.” Baffled by his neutrality, Sirius recoiled. "Am I right to assume you oppose Voldemort, Sirius?”

Every acknowledgement of Voldemort felt like a blow. "Yes. Vehemently.”

Dumbledore surveilled him with a nod, saying nothing.

"I couldn't stop Mulciber in time," Sirius said. “But I wouldn't just stand there and be responsible for the further torture of an innocent. You wanted me to run for Mummy while that girl got her kidneys torn out?”

"But you were not responsible for it," Dumbledore said quietly. "You were not expected to stop Mulciber casting the Infliction."

"Then who the fuck is expected to do it?" Sirius shouted. "Who is responsible? We're all meant to stand around and let it happen just because we’re not bloody legal? That's called complicity, _Sir_. And where the fuck were you that I was meant to fetch you? Dining with the Minister?"

"Black," said McGonagall sharply, "watch yourself."

But Dumbledore was calm. “You may rage at me all you like," he said. "I would, in your position."

"Don't fucking patronise me!” Sirius shouted. He realized he was standing. "Give me bloody answers! You all knew about this?" Sirius gestured between Dumbledore and McGonagall. "You know about him, about Death Eaters, about Voldemort, but you're sitting here in your fucking offices drinking tea? Why do you think I have to do something? Who else is going to do it?”

"What makes you think we are not trying to stop it ourselves? Do Death Eaters typically operate in the plain light of day, Sirius? Has that been your experience with them, outside of these halls? It has not been mine.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again, seething with rage. 

"I am not all-seeing," Dumbledore went on. "I can’t, of course, have eyes in all corners of the castle at all times. This is something you have yourself taken advantage of on countless occasions. I'm sure I don't need to explain—"

"Stop equating me with Mulciber! I’m not! I am not. I have done everything in my power to make sure I'm not. Do you know how hard I've worked, how much I’ve given up, how much blood and sweat I’ve put into making sure I never become like them?"

"I do."

"You don’t!” Sirius shouted. “You don't, or we wouldn't be sitting here discussing the philosophical merits of running away! You try running away from your own fucking family! See how far you get!”

Dumbledore said nothing, fingers steepled.

“The Death Eaters operating in your halls rely on your inaction,” Sirius said, seething.

"They are not Death Eaters," Dumbledore said patiently. "They are children, just like you."

"No. Sorry, but no. That is a delightful sentiment, but naive. I was among them. I know them, I saw them, I _was_ them. I know what they are. I was raised in it; my brother is one. Every day I sat across from Regulus and watched him eat this shite up for breakfast, every word. I watched him take every damned scrap of ideology they gave him, and for years, _years_ , the temptation was _so_ strong to just give up and join them." Sirius paused to breathe; his voice had run ragged. "The benefits are high. The cost to quitting is substantially higher. It took me all I have… Listen,” he said, putting out a hand. “I don't know why I'm telling you this. It’s important that you understand that it’s impossible to get out.”

“You did.”

“I don’t know why.” Sirius shrugged helplessly. “I don't know what worked, apart from James for some reason. I fought it—yes. But they, by and large, can't. Regulus—can't. The skills aren't there. He internalizes it, he does their bidding, he believes he's righteous for Voldemort's cause, because that’s all he _knows_. It’s all any of them know. There are two options in a Death Eater home: you do what they want on your terms, or you do it on theirs. There is no ambiguity, not in their minds nor in mine, about what they are." 

"I plan to condemn neither you nor your brother for the actions of your parents," Dumbledore said. “So must I extend every one of these children the same benefit of the doubt. It matters that they are children."

"Are you aware how many of these 'children' are fully qualified agents of Voldemort?"

"They are not even fully qualified wizards, Sirius."

"A mere technicality. The war is coming, Professor. These 'children' are sowing the seeds of hatred among their peers. They are at _work_ in your halls. You tell me you’re working against Voldemort—what are you doing to counter them?”

Dumbledore said nothing.

“They are counting on your underestimation of their scope,” Sirius went on. “That is their strategy—infiltrate them young and they'll never know different. As long as you allow it to continue, as long as you enforce your ignorance as to what is happening in these walls, the more 'children' get recruited for their cause, the bigger their growing army."

"What do you suggest, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "Should I expel them, rather than educate them?"

"It's not a matter of education, Professor, that's what I'm saying. I wish it was.”

"Did education not influence you?"

"James Potter influenced me—that's exactly my point. For every Death Eater you expel, you are saving another child his influence."

"And if I were to expel Mulciber,” Dumbledore said, “send him back to his parents permanently—would that, do you think, enable his rehabilitation? To condemn him to the home that made him?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “What if I had done the same to you?"

Sirius stared. He had no answer.

"Education is the way forward," Dumbledore resolved. "The influence of the teachers of this school—all of whom, I might add, are capable of broadening minds at the highest calibre, despite your insistence to the contrary—is often enough to counteract the effects of dark wizardry in society. Defense Against the Dark Arts—"

"Is a joke," Sirius said flatly.

"—positions this school ideologically against Voldemort,” Dumbledore finished, eyebrows raising.

“And yet I could not tell which side you were on.”

“I posit you were not looking.” 

“I have been looking. Believe me, Professor. I have been looking as hard as I can.”

Dumbledore examined him. Exhausted by his anger, having run dry of it, Sirius felt once again queasy. He slumped into his chair, resting a shaking hand over his brow.

"There is a great deal that goes on in the wizarding world, Sirius, that you do not see.”

"There's a great deal that goes on that you don't see, either," Sirius retorted.

“That much, I admit."

“Good Lord," Sirius said, incredulous. "Have I gotten through?”

Dumbledore smiled at him with more warmth than Sirius felt he deserved. Then he conjured a goblet of shimmering turquoise potion. “This is a Draught of Peace.”

“No thank you.” 

“It will settle you."

"I'm fine."

Shrugging, Dumbledore set the goblet on the desk. “Would you like a moment? There are two more matters I wish to discuss with you.”

“No, Christ. Let’s get on with it.”

Behind her desk, McGonagall tutted, but Sirius could care less about his destiny now. "First,” Dumbledore said, “is the matter of your post.”

Sirius straightened. He hadn’t expected that. 

“Am I right to understand you and your parents have had a falling out?”

“What gave it away?” he retorted.

Dumbledore smiled. “Might you call the split permanent?”

“If I never have to see them again, Sir, it will be too soon.”

The Headmaster took this in stride. “All parents are granted automatic right to contact their children by owl post at any time, as you know. It is the Ministry's decree, as well as Hogwarts policy. But I think," he said, exchanging a glance with McGonagall, "we may be able to circumvent that particular regulation in your case, if you so wish."

Sirius waved a hand. "It's fine,” he said tiredly. “Honestly, I'm used to it."

"That is no reason to let it continue. Unless, of course, you would like it to."

“’Course not."

"Then let us put an end to it. On a related topic: the post you've received recently displays more than enough evidence to petition the Ministry courts for a transfer of your guardianship, if you desire.” For the second time in as many minutes, Sirius felt the floor drop from under him. “I think this is the preferable option to alternatives—"

"Emancipation? Is that possible?"

"I think it would be wiser," Dumbledore said slowly, and Sirius deflated in his seat, "if you had a guardian entrusted with your protection until your 17th birthday. I believe James Potter has been in touch with his parents on the subject already”—Sirius straightened again—“and with your permission, I would like to move forward on arranging this with the Ministry. We will, of course, pass along any mail bound to you that is not from your parents."

"I…" For reasons he wasn't sure of, Sirius looked at McGonagall, who offered him a wan smile. "Alright. I suppose if that's… I mean—”

“That is acceptable to you?”

“Yes.” Sirius was too shocked to form much in the way of words. “Yes, Sir.”

"Good.” Dumbledore smiled. "As for the other matter—a good rule of defense is, once an enemy is incapacitated, to desist. To do more is an act of cruelty and does little to separate the good from the powerful."

Sirius groaned, offended to be back on the topic. “You'll notice," he said tersely, "that I did not cast the Infliction back."

"Nevertheless—”

"He was trying to kill her. I was trying to stop him. Show me the morality math on that.“

Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow. “Do you believe behaving ethically is a calculation?”

Sirius shook his head and did not respond.

“This is not a debate of morals, but of actions,” Dumbledore said. “Yours are not acceptable under the rules of this school. If you continue to curse students in the halls, Sirius—there will be consequences. This is all I mean to say. I strongly encourage you to reflect on your path, an act you by now ought to be experienced”—Sirius snorted—“and course correct.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Sirius said, saluting loosely.

“Black,” McGonagall intoned. “Take this seriously.”

“I am, Professor, believe me.”

Dumbledore got to his feet; he seemed to have said what he came here to say. "I leave the disciplinary portion of this meeting in Professor McGonagall's capable hands. I invite you again to drink the draught; your pallor has progressed to near transparency, and it won't do for your friends to confuse you for one of the ghosts as you re-enter the tower.”

As he took this to mean he would not be expelled, Sirius thought it best, for once, not to try his luck with a retort.

Dumbledore’s expression suggested he had suddenly understood something. Unbidden, he picked up the goblet and took a sip himself. "I am a bright green canary," he said, and set it back on the desk with a smile. "You see—no poison; no truth potion."

Sirius said nothing. It perturbed him Dumbledore realized his point of trepidation.

"I'm afraid I must now return to the Minister for Magic, who has been patiently waiting in my office. Unless, of course, you have further questions."

None of this had gone the way he'd expected. He was not being expelled; in fact, it seemed he was being given a new home. Now Dumbledore was asking if he had any questions, as though that was why he had been called here.

"No," he said. Then, feeling sorry for his anger, he added, “I didn’t mean to keep you."

"Not at all,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “I am glad we’ve spoken, Sirius. In time, when we are both better prepared, I may ask you for any information you have gleaned from your time in your parents’ home—but I ask you to hold onto it for the time being. Forgive my caution, but your safety remains my paramount concern.” Then, before Sirius could follow up—before he could so much as react at getting confirmation from another faculty member that he was, indeed, in danger from his family—Dumbledore took a pinch of Floo powder from over the mantle, bade McGonagall goodnight, stepped into the fire, and disappeared.

It was a strange tranquility that fell with only himself and McGonagall in the room. The log crackled in the fire; the clock ticked behind him, and Sirius realized with faint, relieved finality that he was likely to find himself in this office again after all.

McGonagall nodded to the goblet. “The potion will help you.”

Sirius took it reluctantly. Was this some sort of pressure test? "I take it, then, that I'm not expelled.”

"No. But you mustn't take that as an indication that you can continue as you have. I understand you have not been yourself, and I sympathize. But teachers have afforded you a great deal of slack on what is fundamentally unacceptable conduct. If you continue as you have been, Black, expulsion may well be in your future. The cursing of students in the halls— _no matter their crimes,_ ” she said over his budding objection, "will not be tolerated under any circumstances. What separates us from our enemies is not only the content, but the intent behind our defense. In the future," she added, eyebrows high on her brow, "you may find a disarming spell may be quite sufficient."

Sirius' brow straightened out. "Alright," he said, faintly stunned.

“Drink your potion.”

Begrudgingly, Sirius did. In an instant, he felt warmth spreading to his fingers.

"I am sorely tempted to revoke your access to your wand," McGonagall said, when he had taken another drink, "except during classes."

Sirius nearly spit out the potion. "Professor, you can't—"

"I am merely telling you what is ahead if you continue as you have," she interrupted, handing him his wand across the desk. "I want your assurance that you will not curse students in the halls. Detentions may do nothing to deter you, but—and do not take this as a threat, but a promise—if you cannot show a commitment to alternative measures, my hand will be forced. I do not enjoy limiting your freedoms. I ask you not to corner me into it.“

Sirius pressed his lips as he reached for the wand, but McGonagall withdrew it from his reach with a cocked eyebrow. 

"No cursing," he promised, faintly gratified at last when she handed him the wand. "Unless they deserve it.”

"Black…”

"Joking.”

They both knew he wasn’t, but McGonagall did him the favour of ignoring the fact. “As for your actual punishment," she said, “let’s begin with no Hogsmeade. _At all_ ,” she added, when he opened his mouth, "including secret passages," and wasn't that just a worrying portent of what all she knew. "You _will_ be in detentions for the duration of regular Hogsmeade visits so that I may be absolutely certain you are where you are meant to be. Hopefully this will also curb the truly staggering number of parties I have been forced to shut down in Gryffindor Tower this year.”

Sirius smiled in sudden admiration. It seemed possible this woman knew everything.

"I also have it on authority that you have just been named Beater for the Gryffindor team," McGonagall went on.

Finally, Sirius’ stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“No longer.” She smiled grimly. "You are hereby banned from playing House Quidditch through the end of fifth year. Believe me," she added, "when I say this pains me as much as it pains you."

“Professor, be reasonable!“

"Expulsion would have yielded the same result," she said forcefully, and Sirius directed the rest of his snarling into the silver goblet. "Finally, you will be spending every Sunday afternoon with me until you have scraped your Transfiguration grade up to where it should be. You are far too talented not to be receiving at least an E-level grade in my class, as demonstrated by your flawless _Incarcerus_ conjuration tonight. I intend for you to be as interested in your future as I am, Black; this arrangement will, of course, end faster the sooner you bring your written work up to snuff.” By God, Sirius thought. The woman was an evil genius. “If you wish to gain your Sunday afternoons back before Christmas holidays, I recommend you work hard to ensure it. I will be recommending similar remedial measures to your other professors."

Sirius was slumped over properly now, but the draught had worked its magic; he no longer felt like he was going to vomit, nor like he might drop anything that found its way into his hands. 

"Am I understood?" McGonagall asked.

"Yes, Professor.” He found himself uncharacteristically disinclined to argue. Maybe this was why Dumbledore had given him the potion. Maybe he was just tired.

"Good." She gestured to the door. "I daresay dinner is over by now, but I will have a house elf bring something to Gryffindor Tower. Do not leave those walls tonight," she said, as though knowing Sirius was just as likely to approach the kitchens himself. "I will see you Sunday at 1 o'clock here in this office, and I pray I do not see you before."

Sirius nodded his understanding and drained the rest of the potion. The goblet disappeared the second he placed it back on her desk. Once on his feet, Sirius felt as though there was still business unfinished.

“Thank you," he muttered, eyes on his shoes.

McGonagall's mouth pressed small, making her look stern and soft at once. "You are not the only person with eyes and ears in the wizarding world, Black," she told him quietly. "It would behoove you to trust that there are qualified wizards who share your point of view doing everything they can."

Sirius nodded and strode quickly to the door, keen to get out before he experienced anything so humiliating as an emotion. "Professor," he said suddenly at the door, turning halfway around. "Can you…” He sighed. “I know Regulus well enough to know his allegiance. But since he wants nothing to do with me… it would be hard for me to see it if he did want to turn a new leaf. It might…” His voice turned stilted. “It might. Be easier. For you. To tell.”

McGonagall nodded curtly—a formal motion. But Sirius had the impression he'd been understood.

He closed her office door behind him, then paused in the corridor, one hand lingering on the knob. He'd somehow made it out of this with his wand intact; he would not have to learn to foot it in the woods. He would return to these draughty halls tomorrow, and the day after that; tonight he would pull up the blankets on his four-poster bed and open his eyes to a crimson canopy. He would wake up tomorrow, and the day after that, surrounded by the chaps that loved him.

Sirius did not often feel lucky. But it occurred to him, as he slunk down the hall toward Gryffindor Tower, that he might well have been tonight.


	5. All Kinds of Evidence

  


The Fat Lady frowned at Sirius as he approached the portrait hole. “Hmm."

"Passing judgment based on rumours yet again, I see," Sirius said. “Alabaster.”

“The cheek on you,” she scolded; but she swung open in spite of reservations.

The Common Room fell into stonied silence the second he walked through the portrait hole. A scan around told him the trio weren't down here, so none of these stares mattered to him in the least. 

"I didn't curse Janey Marchbanks," he announced anyway, spreading his hands wide as he made his way toward the dormitory stairs. Thirty-odd pairs of staring eyes followed, so Sirius flipped them all a two-fingered salute. "But Mulciber got well short of what he had coming. If you care to disagree, I'll happily entertain the discussion another day."

A peppering of gossipy chatter followed him up the stairs, none of which he concerned himself with. He took the flight two at a time, pushing open the door without delay. 

James, Remus, and Peter all lay idle in their bunks. It might have been comical, the way they all sat up at once, if they weren't all so obviously worried about him. 

“I’ll warn you,” he began, holding up a finger up to their exclamations, "I have taken a calming draught. Which as it turns out does not make you high, even in the slightest? I really thought it might. Instead it seems to just make the doldrums feel sort of alright. Not sure I'm entirely fond of that either." He shut the door behind him.

"They expelled you," James said, flat with certainty.

"No," said Sirius, collapsing onto his own four-poster.

Their stunned pauses provided a gravity to this news. "Why did they give you a calming draught?" asked Remus.

"Because I was 'too angry' and 'scaring everybody', or whatever.” Sirius carved inverted commas into the air.

"Sirius," said Remus.

"Because I was informing on Death Eaters and it made me feel a bit dodgy, Moony, if you must know. Bugger, what a day. Prongs—" He sat up with a sudden frown. "You asked your parents to adopt me?"

"Er.” James looked genuinely confused. "No? I mean, I sort of asked if you could stay with us for every holiday until the end of time, somewhere around the tenth Howler. How’d it get back to you?"

"Apparently it got back to Dumbledore. I assume _that_ wasn't you."

"Oh." James sat there looking like an idiot. "Maybe they took it more seriously than I knew about?"

Sirius waved a hand. “Lucky thing they did. Say, would you mind writing them again to ask if they'd be willing to legally adopt me? I promise not to be a bother, only apparently all these Howlers are putting a bit of a wilt on everyone's boners."

The stunned silence was more pronounced from some quarters than others. "Yeah, Padfoot," James said. "Shit, I'll write them right now."

"I'm joking," Sirius said tiredly. "I think Dumbledore's filing a petition with the Ministry to make it happen or some such. They’ll get official documentation eventually, I assume.” Then he gave a weak laugh. "This whole situation is really quite mental." 

James leaned over to rummage around in his trunk, apparently taking the request seriously. "So you went in for a triple hexing," Remus said, sounding confused, "and you came out with emancipation?"

"Emancipation is what I asked for," Sirius said, holding up a finger. "What I'm getting is adoption. Apparently they're worried my defection from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is going to 'cause me harm'." The inverted commas had made a fast return. “The school can't legally stop mail from my parents, so they're making my parents James' parents, Euphemia willing.”

"She's willing," James said distractedly, already writing.

“No more free access to Death Eaters outside these halls, which sets me at ease quite a bit," Sirius admitted. "Also enables me to tattle to the resistance with better protections in place, I suppose."

This, at last, brought James to look up. "What resistance?"

“That's the zinger of it all, isn’t it?” Sirius said. “McGonagall knew about Death Eaters without my explaining. I think Dumbledore’s been fighting them for ages right under our noses, and what's more, I think dear old Minerva is part of it.”

James gaped, quill hand falling aside. "Funny way of showing it," he said at last, "letting _their_ likes into their school."

"Right?"

"I'm sorry," Remus said, "but what in all hell are either of you talking about?"

Sirius glanced at him—studied his pinched face, white with worry and the waxing moon. Even McGonagall turned out to know about Death Eaters. There seemed to be a lot less at stake in cluing Remus in than there was.

Sirius rolled over and pulled out his trunk, tossing clothes and parchment aside to get to the false compartment. "Orion and Walburga are Death Eaters—supporters of Voldemort, that 'Dark Lord' fellow everyone's too scared of to name aloud,” he explained, tossing a stack of parchment onto Remus' bed. “You’ll have heard of them—part of the band going around torturing Muggles and killing half-breeds for fun, Dark Marks over home and so on. That's them. Not _them_ , I mean, not Walburga at least; not that action. She barely leaves the house, too busy entertaining and wheedling out information to be out murdering. But she'll set a murder up on anyone, pass information on if it'll help. Fancies herself a matriarch of the movement or some shite. That's what the Howlers are about,” he added. “She _knows_ I'm going to leak all their secrets and is trying to intimidate me against defection." 

Remus, bless his ancient soul, already had the papers spread out and was kneeling in front of them, reading fast. 

"Yeah, mate, it's gruesome," Sirius said, watching his expression grow more disgusted by the second. "I can barely read it and they're not even talking about me."

"These names," Remus muttered, handing papers he was done with behind him to Peter with distraction. "Nott, Avery, Lestrange… Mulciber." He dropped the parchment and looked at Sirius as though for the first time. “That’s why you and James have been cursing them all term.”

"Yeah," Sirius said fervently. "Because they’re _Death Eaters._ ”

“Their parents are Death Eaters," Remus amended.

"You sound like Dumbledore. Our Avery, Mulciber and the like may only be apples, but you know what they say about where they fall.”

“You didn’t.”

"No, but Regulus did. Took a great deal of convincing from you lot to realize the error of the Death Eating ways, didn’t it? I can even prove it. That curse he used—cooks your organs in your body. Death Eaters invented it. No goodness there, mate, trust me.” He reached across the corridor between their beds and splayed his hand over the parchment so Remus would meet his eye. "Trust me, Moony. It takes work to step away from that life, and they haven't done it." 

Remus stared, eyes piercing. Sirius removed and shrank back onto his bed, but Remus didn't stop watching his retreat. "And no one wants to do work if they can help it," Sirius went on, flopping back over. "It's like one of the ten core qualities of humanity: don't do the work if you can get away with not. Ninety percent of cases: apple, tree. Mark my words, Azkaban will be full of them in ten years' time and not for petty theft."

Remus continued to stare at him with such intensity that Peter was able to snatch the parchment out of his hand without any resistance. "Werewolves serve Voldemort, too," Remus said, at long last; his eyes were still fixed on Sirius with brutal focus. “What are your apple/tree odds on that?”

It was a shock to hear Voldemort's name, and even more of a shock to hear Remus say it. James' head finally rose from where he was still penning his letter to his parents. 

Sirius had no idea who knew about Voldemort in the wizarding world, but Remus, as usual, was better read than the rest. "How do you know that?" he asked.

Remus gestured at the pages. "Don't you?"

"I've never heard anything about werewolves with them, Moony.”

Remus' expression slipped into concealed horror. Then he rolled against the wall and pretended to keep reading, page hiding his face. "Forget I brought it up.”

Sirius slunk back across his bed until his elbows rested on Remus' blankets. “Moony,” he said softly, reaching to take Remus’ hand from over his mouth. “Hey, Moony. No one thinks you're a Death Eater. Nobody. You know that, right? You're one of ours." With only his feet left on his own bed, Sirius finally managed to pull Remus' hand from his face and grasp it in his. Maybe it was the calming draught; maybe it was the certainty offered by Dumbledore that he was not as alone in the world as he thought. But he believed every word of what he was saying. “I’m not talking about predilections or patterns. I am talking about the fucking propaganda machine the Death Eaters put out. Their kids are in it from day one. Nurture, not nature. You are exempt.”

Remus seemed not to know what to do with Sirius' sincerity; he looked aside. "Nurture, not nature," he echoed. "Except in your case?"

"Remember what a git I was in first year?"

"Vividly," said Remus. "And second year. And—"

"You have brought me up the rest of the way," Sirius said, loudly.

"And what a smashing job we've done," James muttered as he wrote. 

"That all counts," Sirius said, ignoring him. "You are _good_ , Moony, always will be. This family will drag any one of us back who starts to think different. He will not sink his claws into us, not by any means. Mark me.” Sirius grasped his hand more tightly. “Voldemort will not touch us. He can’t.”

Remus only stared, a sharp flurry in his breath. Sirius could tell by the grip of his hand that he also believed him—or, at the very least, he wanted to.

Sirius let go and slipped away, confident his point was made. Remus watched him retreat across the bed. “It's not me I'm worried about," he said hoarsely.

“Me, then?"

"No! It's—them." Remus gestured loosely toward the door. "The day it gets out I'm a werewolf is the day I'm arraigned to Azkaban."

"No one's arraigning you."

"I'll see you at my trial protesting, then."

"Be there with bells on." Sirius reclined in his bed, feeling loose and glad. "How'd you know about the werewolves, anyway? The Death Eater ones, I mean.“

"Daily Prophet.” Remus set his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He seemed not to have recovered from the momentary shock of planting suspicion as to his own allegiance among his friends. "Reading between the lines, of course. They've never freely admitted Voldemort exists, but my father works at the Ministry…“

“Oh, right. Of course.“

"Likes to give me periodic speeches on what to do if a werewolf gang ever tries to recruit me." Remus rolled his eyes. "I'm not registered, so it's all a moot point regardless. I've never been approached by another werewolf. That might change once I'm overage, I suppose.” He looked wearily between them, from Sirius to James to Peter, as Sirius studied him with his face nested in his hands. Remus had never mentioned any of this. He always carried so much more than he ever let on. “All this to say: please don’t tell anyone.”

“We’re not going to tell anyone, Moony. Just tell us who to curse.”

Remus looked at him in bland accusation. “I don’t think cursing every suspected Death Eater is especially productive,” said Remus, his accent neatly returned to its newscaster timbre.

“I don’t think letting them walk around uncursed is all that productive either,” Sirius said, reaching for his wand. Abruptly, he remembered Mulciber’s filthy stick held alongside it in McGonagall’s hand. “Ugh. Prongs, can I borrow your wand polishing thingy? The non-lewd metaphor version.”

James kicked his trunk toward him. “Find it yourself.”

“What are you writing, a Ministry report?” Sirius asked, going digging.

“I figured while I was writing I’d send a bit of an update. They were dead chuffed when I made Quidditch Captain but I haven’t told them about the team yet.”

“Oh,” Sirius said, stomach dropping. “Prongs… McGonagall took me off the team.”

“What?” Looking plainly in shock, James set the quill aside. “Padfoot.”

“No Hogsmeade this year, either.” Sirius gave a feeble laugh and pulled himself to sitting. “Remedial fucking Transfiguration, if you can believe it! She even threatened to take my wand away.”

“No…”

“Consequences,” Remus whispered to the ceiling, far too pleasantly.

“Said I was lucky I still have the _option_ to curse anyone.”

“McGonagall said that?” Remus asked.

“Well. She intimated that maybe next time, disarming ought to do the trick.”

“ _Did_ she.”

“ _Dumbledore_ said I ought to have fetched a teacher.” 

“But our match against Ravenclaw is in three weeks,” said James.

“Er… chaps?” said Peter, holding six documents aloft. “Who’s Voldemort?”

All three of them stared, saying nothing. “Jesus Christ,” Sirius muttered, and renewed his hunting through James’ trunk. “Oi, where’s your secret stash?”

“I don’t have one,” James muttered. “You’re thinking of you.”

“Cigarettes? Anything?”

“Once again, you are thinking of you.”

“I thought you were already calm,” Remus said.

“Wearing off, I think. Chest feels sort of itchy.”

“Think that’s just your chest hair coming in,” said Peter unhelpfully.

“You’re thinking of Moony.”

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking delightfully perplexed. “What?” he asked politely.

“You get hairier around moontime, it’s the only time you shave every day. What’s it, three days out now?" Sirius assessed Remus' sternum through his robe and nodded. "Bet you’ll have a right proper chest bush by Saturday afternoon.”

Remus was motionless for a long moment. Sirius looked up in time to catch him pulling his robes away from his skin and looking down. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed furiously. “I didn’t need to know that."

“Don’t get cross with _me_. It’s dashing. Pete wishes he could grow hair like that.”

“I do,” Peter said earnestly.

“So do I, to be honest,” said James, having returned to his writing.

“It’s not a bad thing," Sirius said. "It’s _fascinating_. Very masculine, quite strapping."

“Strong petition to stop you being fascinated by what’s fundamentally a long-hated experience for me,” Remus muttered.

“Afterwards it’s always back to normal, like you shed everything when you turn back. Amazing how the hair on your head knows how to stay on. Where else does it stay?”

“I wish you had been expelled,” Remus said, faux-pleasantly.

“Hey,” Sirius said, sitting up with sudden realization. “Did your wolfmoons change at all when you hit puberty, Moony? Is it a whole different thing now? Are you a horny wolf?”

“Most days,” Remus muttered, face in his hands, ears burning a spectacular crimson, “I sit at lunch and daydream about throwing you headfirst off the Divination Tower, like a javelin.”

“I will take that as a resounding yes.”

“I’ll thank you to stop taking stock of,” Remus said, re-emerging, plainly flustered, “of, of what my body is—of what it looks like at the different phases of the moon. Or ever. Really, Sirius, you've got to develop a sense of boundaries eventually.”

“Think it’ll get worse as you get older?” Sirius said idly, finding a toothpick at the bottom of the trunk and sticking it in his mouth. “More hair in more places for longer?”

“I will _pay_ you to shut up."

“Pay me with _what_ , your mother’s allowance?” Sirius asked; but Remus only reached into his book bag and threw a carton of cigarettes at his head.

Sirius gaped at the carton, then gaped at Remus. “Where did you get _these_?”

“Never mind.”

“But you’re a _Prefect_!”

“That’s where I got them, actually, I… confiscated them.”

“No you didn’t! You bought them!”

“I did not.”

Opening the carton revealed a half-empty pack. “They’re half gone!” Sirius showed it to James, who had resurfaced from his letter with interest. Then he showed Pete. “Look!”

“Yeah,” said Peter, still frowning his perplexion at Sirius' stolen letters. “He and Lily smoke together on the grounds all the time."

The silence was deafening. 

James, predictably, was the first to move. He unhinged his jaw and turned on Remus like a predator who’s only just located his prey.

“You,” he whispered, “ _what?_ ”

Remus scowled at Peter in remonstration. “Occasionally,” he qualified, “yes, we’ve been known to share a cigarette."

“At least nine times!” Sirius said cheerfully, tipping him the pack.

“You,” James breathed, voice thin, “Lily. Nine times?”

“Fuck’s sake, Prongs, it's not like we're _snogging_. We divide our Prefect duties each Wednesday before Astrology, I have told you this a thousand times."

“Is _that_ why you always smell like Swansea when you come into the observatory?” asked Sirius, while James’ opened and closed his mouth like an astonished guppy.

“Swansea this year having been a haze of hashish, nicotine, and alcohol? It fits one of those criteria, I suppose.”

“There have only been seven Wednesdays of term,” Peter said, counting in his head with what appeared to be great effort.

Remus got to his feet and turned his back to disrobe. “I’m going to bed.”

“Remus… Lily?” James said, strained.

“We occasionally discuss such scintillating matters as Arithmancy charts while sharing a cigarette _or two_ overlooking the lake, James,” Remus clipped. “We have been friendly for some years, as you well know, but friendly is _it_.”

“Is that who you secretly fancy?” asked Sirius, just to hear James’ high note of deflation.

“For the last time,” Remus growled, “I don't fancy anyone." 

The frustration in his voice—the way it seemed to invoke the wolf at the lower registers—sent a thrill down Sirius' spine. He grinned wide, charge dampened only by his sudden view of the months-old scars carved into Remus' sides. 

Suddenly Remus craned his neck, besetting Sirius with a furious glare. “How in God’s name did _I_ become the focus of attention when you came in here banned from every leisure activity, crowing about Death Eaters, and disinheriting yourself fresh off a hexing stunt?”

“You’re just that captivating, Moony,” Sirius said with a wink.

“Go smoke your bloody fags.” And Remus pulled on his pyjamas without giving Sirius so much as a sidelong glimpse of his wolfy chest hair.

“I guess I am disinheriting myself,” Sirius said, playing over Remus' accusation with a frown. “You’re the only rich one among us now, Prongs.”

“It’s half yours, anyway,” James muttered, distracted.

Sirius laughed his surprise. “What? Are we marrying as well?”

“Set to become my brother, no? That’s how inheritance works. Here,” James said, shoving eight pages of still-drying parchment in Sirius’ hands. “You should add something.”

“Sure only one owl will do the trick?” Sirius asked, but took the quill without further comment. He was touched to be called James’ brother, and even more touched that James had sought this out; that he dropped the word so cavalier, as though Sirius’ upbringing mattered not at all. “I’m not really your brother, mate,” he said. “Just leeching off your parents’ hospitality.” Guilt settled as he said it, a low stone in his belly. The potion was definitely wearing off. 

“Says you,” James said, collapsing against the bed. Remus, meanwhile, was achieving maximum disruption as he underwent his nightly ritual of punching the pillow half to death. “You would tell me, Remus, if you fancied Lily?"

"I don’t,” Remus said at once. “But if I did: probably not, to be honest.”

Sirius laughed. "I could handle it,” said James.

“No you couldn’t.”

“I could. I just… well, it’s the shock of it, that’s all.”

Remus looked James dead in the eye. “I don’t fancy her.”

“It’s a free country,” he said, cavalier.

“I know it’s a free country.” Meanwhile, Sirius looked down at the parchment. How did one say ‘Please may I become your son’ in a casual manner? “I don’t fancy Lily Evans. Never have, never will.” 

“Why not?” James asked, now sounding offended. “Something wrong with her?”

“Oh dear God,” said Remus, collapsing facedown into his pillow.

“Can we go back,” Peter said, exhaling through his nose, “to who, exactly, Voldemort is?”

“Peter!” Sirius yelled. "Read the fucking news!”

"Remus just said he's not in the news."

“I am going to _sleep_ ,” Remus shouted, face to the wall. “Sirius, do not smoke all of those, I need them to survive your collective antics for another week.”

“I am so going to smoke all of them,” Sirius replied, scribbling something hasty and entirely too understated.

“I hate you _profoundly._ ”

Sirius grinned at him. “Hate you too, sweetheart."

Sharp green eyes found him as Remus glared at him over his shoulder, then disappeared just as fast as he turned toward the wall. His ears were still pink. Sirius thought all the time about reaching a hand or a tongue to them just to see if they were hot to the touch—not a tongue, actually. That would be weird.

“Padfoot, really?" James muttered, crowding, reading over his shoulder. "‘You don’t have to do this but please know I have always envied your cookware’?”

Sirius frowned at the parchment. “Must still have been thinking about inheritance.”

“Is Voldemort Dumbledore’s alter ego?” asked Pete hesitantly.

“Goodnight!” Remus said loudly, as James launched Sirius’ pillow at Peter's face.

  



End file.
